Neverland: Quest In Kensington Gardens
by Doverstar
Summary: A sequel to Neverland: Part 3, which is a novelized sequel to the Syfy miniseries Neverland. Just before spring kicks in and Peter can see his Wendy, disaster strikes in Neverland and leaks into this world. Peter, with help from some new and old friends, must save both his home and ours in just one night. Based loosely on J.M. Barrie's novel "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens".
1. Chapter 1: Tony's Scheme

**(If you haven't read Neverland: Part 3 or seen the Syfy miniseries Neverland, starring the unfairly talented Charlie Rowe, you should read/watch those before reading this. Many things will not make a jot of sense if you don't. Also, I would like to take this opportunity to thank my readers for making this so much more fun by reviewing and giving me pointers, and to promote J.M. Barrie's (creator of Peter Pan and Neverland) novel _The Little White Bird_ or _Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens_ , because the plot of this fanfic is very loosely based on that. The 2 new characters you are about to meet appear in _The Little White Bird/Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens_ , so it's a lot cooler if you have that background in your head while reading this. Enjoy! Four years later, here's the sequel, by popular request. -Doverstar)**

* * *

On a quiet street in London, in a quiet house, there lived two children.

These children were _not_ quiet.

One of them was a gorgeous young girl with pale skin and curled black hair who always loved to wear her purple frock. She was thirteen, and very simpering and ordinary.

The other was an older boy of a magnificent fifteen years old. He had thick blonde hair like their absent father, and a nose high in the air all the time, so high that one could actually assume his pride had crawled out of his arrogant demeanor and tilted it for him daily. He wore a dull scarlet color of clothing and never left home without his cap.

It was time for them to set off for school that early January morning. It was only the first week after New Year's, and a whole three more until spring, at which time their lessons took a holiday in their particular educational facility.

As usual, the children were arguing. Actually, it wasn't really an argument. The lad was doing most of the arguing, while his sister was behaving as charitably as could be. You see, she absolutely adored her brother.

The boy's name was Tony Mannering, and the girl's was Maimie Mannering. The Mannerings were a simple family, consisting of the two teenage offspring and their mother, as well as their Ayah, who looked after them when their mother could not be bothered to. There was also a cat with splendid orange stripes who liked to curl in the warmest chair in the house just before you went to claim it for yourself.

Tony was not necessarily a bad boy; he was just very conceited. He craved attention, be it negative or positive, and would say and do almost anything at all to gain it. However, the only person in his life that ever took him seriously or even listened for half a second was his sister, whose doting on him only made his conceit worse, because he felt he deserved her reverence. He was, after all, the older brother.

Maimie was very plain in the daytime, as normal as possible. However, there were some things that made her stand out, especially in school. For example, each day, she wore a different pair of shoes. This meant she must have had seven hundred and thirty shoes in her closet! They were all black, but she could very easily point out the differences in each pair to you, and she never put one on with another's twin. Now, she was not vain in the least bit; she simply enjoyed dressing to the best of her ability whenever she thought it proper. She was never the kind to think appearances were everything, though her own appearance achieved a great deal without her knowledge. She was very ordinary indeed.

In the daytime, of course, as I said before. The night hours were an entirely different matter, but we'll come back to that.

This morning, as they were in their nursery and just finishing gathering their things for class that day, Maimie had made an absent comment about Tony's cap.

"Why do you always wear it out, Tony?" Maimie asked nicely. "It looks terribly well-worn."

The cap was something Tony claimed had been a gift from their father, whom only Tony could remember as the man had disappeared before Maimie had reached the age of three. He was inclined to snap at anyone who criticized his hat and this included his younger sister.

"It looks fine," Tony grumbled back. "What about that frock? Looks like you've soiled it back to front!"

Tony always began conversations with an insult.

"Does it?" Maimie gasped, completely overlooking the snide in his remark. "I'll have to ask Ayah to wash it again. Now what will I wear to school? I haven't anything else to match my stockings!"

"You might try your uniform," Tony replied scathingly.

Just then, their mother poked her head into the room, looking very flustered and very busy. "Darlings," she said breathlessly, "Something's happened, all to do with the ladies of my reading group, and I'll be gone for the whole of the evening tonight. Your Ayah is taking you to the Gardens for some fresh air while I'm out. Do behave yourselves, and there will be a treat after supper."

Miss Mannering was always somewhere doing something, especially if it involved tea or her beloved reading group. She was hardly around since Christmas had passed a month ago, and each day she treated them as if they were younger than they appeared, bribing them with things like 'treats'. But she was true to her word most of the time in that bit, and Tony and Maimie didn't mind being spoiled as if they were little children when it involved treats.

When their mother had left the room, Maimie and Tony exchanged an excited glance.

Kensington Gardens! They were going to Kensington Gardens that night!

It was their very favorite place to be, and they visited the Gardens as often as they could. Even Tony was considerably more lighthearted as they arrived at school.

When Maimie walked into her classroom, every boy in the area watched her take her seat and begin to sketch a flower in her notes.

The teacher droned on with the lesson and was, of course, boring, boring, _boring_. Theirs was a class that, like many others, sucked all the energy and intelligence out of the children in the room and tried to deposit it onto their papers. It didn't work.

Maimie tried her best to pay close attention, but her thoughts were on Kensington Gardens. The Gardens were really nothing incredibly fantastic, except to Maimie, who thought the Royal Park was the most magical place in London. Through the gates were a series of enchanting spots with stories to tell, and she loved them all.

Finally, the children were let out for recess and rushed into the schoolyard and the field.

Maimie was looking for one friend in particular, a girl her own age, perhaps only a month or so older. She was actually longing to see her brother with his older classmates and join them, but unfortunately he had hidden himself from view very well today.

When she saw her friend, Maimie didn't mind her brother's absence.

"Wendy!" she called, hurrying through the snow toward the girl.

Wendy Darling was a rather strange child. Everyone knew she and her brothers, John and Michael, had gone missing for weeks just before Christmas, and one morning they had mysteriously arrived for class as if nothing had changed. Nothing, of course, but the children themselves.

The thirteen-year-old girl with the chocolate-brown curls (pulled into braids in her school uniform ) was sitting underneath a tree on a dry patch of ground, her hands cupped as she looked at what Maimie knew was a larger-than-most acorn on the end of a chain around her neck. Sometimes she could swear the acorn glittered, but Wendy didn't respond directly whenever she pointed it out.

Something had indeed come over Wendy since her disappearance. She was quieter than the rest of them now, keeping a distance, but when she did speak Maimie recognized a kind of longing in her voice, an ache. She knew what it was; Wendy had trusted her enough to tell her everything.

To tell her about Neverland.

Maimie approached Wendy breathlessly and flounced down beside her friend. "Hello, Wendy!"

"Hello." Wendy rubbed the acorn between her fingers and glanced at Maimie. "My, you look flushed. Are you all right?"

"It's cold, that's all," Maimie sniffed. "I was so hoping you would tell me another story today. You know," she added in a whisper, cupping her hand to the side of her mouth as she whispered to the other girl, "about Neverland!"

"You could get other stories from John," Wendy said quietly. "It needn't be from me all the time."

"But yours are the best," Maimie insisted. "Do tell me, Wendy. Tell me about the Lost Boys, and the fairies, and the pirates!"

Wendy was quiet, trying to decide whether to bother to retell those tales today. The thought of them made her so wistful that speaking them aloud only filled her heart to the brim with longing.

"Ooh," Maimie added, gripping Wendy's arm with a beautiful smile, "and Peter Pan!"

This name pushed the other girl's refusal over the edge, and Wendy's mouth twitched into a smile of sorts. "What would you like to know, Maimie?"

"How did he come to be?" Maimie asked. "You've told me such a lot about him, you know, but you've never told me that. How ever did he find the Neverland?"

"Well," Wendy said, getting comfortable, "you see, Peter grew up on the East End. He was an orphan."

"How dreadful," Maimie simpered.

"Oh, it wasn't all bad. Not after he was taken in by Jimmy Hook, that is."

"Wait. Do you mean Captain Hook? That wretched pirate man!" Maimie shivered. "But Wendy, he's evil!"

"Well, yes, but before that he was a fencing teacher."

Maimie thought that this was very appropriate, and a good twist. After all, hadn't the pirate been nearly a match for Peter in sword fights during all of Wendy's other stories?

"He and other boys adopted by Jimmy were taught to pickpocket."

"They were thieves?" Maimie gasped.

"Oh, yes. And very good at it. Peter was their leader; he could play the flute as a signal to the boys for what they should do next. They were experts, you see. One day, Peter took them all on a special job."

"What sort?"

"They were to raid Harbottle's Antiques."

"No!" Maimie's mittens went to her mouth. "I should think they'd be caught easily!"

"They weren't," Wendy reassured her. "They filled their bags and Peter followed Jimmy to a back room, in which they discovered a glowing glass orb."

Maimie's eyes widened. Wendy was an exquisite story-teller.

"You see, it was up high on a shelf, in a box. Peter went to look for something to open it with-a champion dagger; you really ought to see him use it-and Jimmy fell backward."

"Did the orb break?"

"No, no, rather, it sucked them all up to the Neverland!"

Maimie gasped appropriately.

"There they held a series of adventures which you already know of, dear Maimie," Wendy finished politely. "The pirates, the Kaw Tribe, Hook's betrayal..."

"And _your_ trip there," Maimie added excitedly.

"Yes." Wendy nodded.

"And you and Peter grew quite fond of each other."

Wendy fell silent, nodding again.

"I daresay he'll come back for a visit soon, Wendy!" Maimie continued quickly, noticing the telltale look on her friend's face, the look that said she was about to lock herself into her own thoughts and pocket the key for a while.

"Perhaps." Wendy stood up.

"He promised you he would." Maimie stood with her; the class was beginning to migrate back inside now. "So you know he'll return, don't you?"

"I...I don't know." Wendy looked very uncomfortable now. "He has such an awful lot of adventures. He's probably forgotten me already." Here she tried for a laugh, airy and light as if it didn't matter to her one way or another, but Maimie saw tears form in her eyes.

"Certainly not!" Maimie hooked her arm in Wendy's comfortingly, eyeing her acorn on the chain with a burst of sympathy. "You wait," she told her companion. "Peter will come 'round spring-cleaning time, just as he said, and you'll be ever so happy!"

But Wendy did not answer her. She just fingered her acorn and looked at her lap for the remainder of class that day.

* * *

When evening came, Maimie and Tony went with their Ayah to Kensington Gardens as promised.

Tony took to throwing pebbles into the Round Pond. Maimie liked to try and sketch out some of her favorite spots in the Gardens. They tried to play Oranges And Lemons, but with only two of them this quickly became dull and they returned to their other activities. Maimie didn't like watching the animals become frightened when Tony flung rocks at them and didn't fancy telling him off for it, so she started exploring the trees. After laughing as he scared away the fish and other wildlife with his pebble-tossing, Tony caught sight of some of the gates beginning to close. It was, after all, near Lock-Out Time, when all the gates, the entrances/exits to Kensington Gardens, were closed one by one for the night.

"Hurry and get your sister out from the shrubs; we've gotta go," Ayah ordered, motioning for Tony to do as he was told.

Tony scowled at her fiercely, then went tromping about looking for Maimie.

The purple-clad girl was underneath a willow, smiling up at the branches, spinning in a circle with her arms out. She almost hit her brother as he joined her.

"Look here, stop mucking about; Ayah says we've got to leave." When she didn't reply for the moment, Tony grew irritated, which happened very quickly for him. "Maimie! Are you deaf? We're leaving!"

Maimie halted and said, "Oh, Tony, isn't it just the sort of place fairies would hold their special dances?"

Tony wrinkled his tilted nose. "Fairies, what rubbish!"

"It isn't, they've got to be real," Maimie insisted.

She didn't argue with him hardly ever. Tony felt this needed to be punished and picked up some frozen snow on the ground, a bit that hadn't melted away slightly yet. He put it down the back of her winter coat, grinning wickedly.

Shrieking and doing a special dance of her own, Maimie flailed around until the ice had left contact with her skin.

"Lock-Out Time! Let's _go_ ," Tony growled.

Maimie gave him a wounded look for what he'd done and walked out from under the willow tree.

Tony followed. He knew she got quiet when he'd hurt her feelings, and stopped admiring him and hanging on everything he did for the moment as this happened. That was unacceptable, as she was the only one who ever paid him any mind.

"D'you know what I've got planned, Maimie?" he whispered in her ear.

Maimie turned ever so slightly toward him, interested despite her low-hanging head as they walked toward the Ayah, who was waiting at the gate for them.

"I mean to stay in after Lock-Out Time."

His sister's unhappiness melted away and she gave a little ihale of awe. "In? In _side_ the Gardens, Tony?"

He nodded, smirking.

"You don't mean it!"

"I do."

"But what if you get caught?"

"I shan't."

"What if it gets too cold?"

"I daresay I'll stick it out."

"Oh, Tony, it's so terribly brave of you!" She jumped on her toes as they passed through the gate.

"I know."

"When will you do it, Tony?" She whispered, so that Ayah could not hear.

"Soon!"

"But _when_ , Tony, _when_?"

Tony lifted his chin. "When it's time, I'll know it, and I'll tell you so you can cover for me."

The conversation continued even as they ate their treats back home.

"Oh, but there could be such dangerous things lurking about in the dark!" Maimie hissed, eyes still shining with adoration for her brother's noble idea.

"Probably."

"What if something awful should happen to you?" Maimie looked so distraught. He was hardly surprised; he was, after all, himself.

"Oi!" scoffed Tony. "I'll be alone. It's not as if anyone else will be in the Garden after Lock-Out." Here the boy leaned across the table. "They say it's _haunted_!"

Maimie gave a little squeak of alarm. "How dreadful!"

"In the dark, the spirits of children who have drowned in the Round Pond or fallen down St. Gover's Well pace the wood around the Serpentine!"

"Goodness!" Maimie shivered.

"So you see," Tony finished with a lazy air, sitting back in his seat, nowhere near as good a tale-teller as Wendy Darling, "nobody but me's got the nerve to go into the Gardens at night."

"But if someone should find you there, and try to stop you?"

"Please!" Tony grunted. "Who'd be that cheeky?"

* * *

 **(Don't forget to review! Characters belong to J.M. Barrie, respectively. Next chapter coming soon.)**


	2. Chapter 2: The Not-A-Pirate

"Peter!"

In a land very unlike our own, a place that is fueled with magic, where no one ages, where Indians roam the woods and pirates roam the sea, where fairies like to be called tree-spirits, where mermaids are both friend and foe (and very real indeed), there was a patch of thriving forest in an even bigger forest. And in this patch of forest, there was an underground home. To get in, you would have to be fitted a tree slide that would then transport you into the home itself. And in this home, there lived a group that had proudly begun to call themselves the Lost Boys. A ragtag bunch of orphan lads, they were very same Wendy had described in her story to Maimie. In one room, there was Twins, the youngest. Another, Tootles. The next held Curly, and beside his a room belonged to Nibs, and Tinkerbell's tiny tree-spirit quarters were across from Slightly's cavern. The last, largest, and most unique underground room was more of a cave with glistening stones and a pool of mineral-dust water.

In this room was a most extraordinary individual of considerable interest named Peter Pan. His last name he'd discovered from the watch he'd kept that belonged to his late father, a watch he'd thrown to the crocodiles one fateful day when he'd slain his direst foe, Captain James Hook. The boy's age was eternally stuck at an early 14 or 13 (depending on who you asked). His hair was black, with flecks of silver. His bangs had begun to curl a year earlier, only at the ends, but they hadn't gotten far; the rest of his hair was a straight, dark tussle. His skin, a healthy yet palish color, was also smeared with glittering silver in bits on his cheeks and fingers; a mark of the mineral dust that ran through his otherwise-human veins, as it did in the land's tree-spirits. He wore a brown coat, with a dappled waistcoat, dark trousers, and black shoes. Vines spiraled along the legs of his trousers, curling at their ends, leaves growing on them in a forever-green color, and somehow this made his appearance wilder; he'd decided to keep them there.

And at that moment, he was trying to get some sleep.

" _Peter_! Wake up!"

Of course, this was impossible living with the Lost Boys.

Peter's eyes shot open and he sprang to his feet, dagger drawn.

It was Tootles. "We've got a pirate sighting in the Mermaid Lagoon!"

"Which one?" Peter was all business now, following Tootles out of the home under the ground and into the open woods.

"Not on Bull Island," Tootles answered. "The usual place. C'mon, the lads're already there!"

But Peter did not follow Tootles on foot. He lifted into the air, eyebrow raised in a challenge. "I'll race you."

Tootles gave him a look.

Peter grinned. "Don't worry, Toots, I'll give you a head start."

"On three?"

"On three. One..."

"Two..."

"Three!"

Tootles took off into the woods.

Peter watched him go, counting inwardly to ten. A sudden bell-like music came to his ears and the tree-spirit Tinkerbell joined him.

" _Good afternoon, Peter,_ " she said dryly; her voice sounding in his thoughts. " _Sleeping in late?_ "

"Nightmare again," Peter told her, shrugging as if it really weren't a problem. "Didn't get much sleep last night. Did you hear there's been a pirate sighting?"

" _It was I who sighted them_."

"Which one, Tink?" Peter began flying as quickly as he dared in the fog; it had been raining all day. Tootles had had more than enough of a head start by now.

" _We didn't recognize him._ "

Tinkerbell hadn't any trouble keeping up with her friend; she was just as quick as he, if not faster. Besides, she liked to see him when they flew together, to be on the same pace of air current. He was very like a child to her; although the fondness she held for the human boy was more than that by far, even if she didn't like to think so. It was undignified and unethical, holding such affections for an entirely different species, and a lesser species at that. But Peter's thickly-innocent heart showed her he was more than just another human, especially now that he'd embraced the mineral dust flowing within him, letting it send innocence trickling into his brain at will. Of course, he could control its power on his actions far better than he could last winter, when that _girl_ came along and nearly got the lot of them killed.

Tinkerbell gave a toss of her tiny head at the thought of Wendy. As wrapped up in the female as Peter had gotten, surely he was over it by now? He hadn't spoken of her, and she'd searched his thoughts daily for traces of the Darling child. Unfortunately, in the first few weeks, she found with her probing that Peter's thoughts had been nothing _but_ those of Wendy, though gradually he pushed them away until they were all but gone. A good thing too, Tink reminded herself. He needn't be stuffing his head with that impudent little human for very long. But if she were being honest with herself, in the last couple of days she'd spent with the Darling children after the battle on the _Jolly Roger_ , she'd grown to enjoy Wendy's company a little more, as she did Aaya's, the Indian princess. It had been good to have one more female around among so many males.

Peter joined the Lost Boys behind one of the larger boulders surrounding Mermaid Lagoon. Oddly enough, he couldn't see any of the mermaids in the crystal-blue water.

Curly glanced at the flying lad as he landed beside them. "What took you so long?" he scoffed.

Peter shrugged. He wasn't going to admit to sleeping in.

Tootles hurried toward them then. Panting, he scoffed at Peter. "Lost again!"

"You'll get it next time," Peter told him encouragingly, clapping him on the back, but he hid the arrogance that shot through him when he won, as usual. "Seen him yet?" he asked Slightly.

"He's 'round that rock, Peter," Slightly whispered, pointing. "Don't know 'im."

"I see him!" Twins hissed.

"Me too," Nibs added as Tinkerbell alighted on his shoulder; the tree-spirit and the quiet boy were good friends among the others. "He's got something in his pockets."

Peter rose up off the ground only a little to see properly just over the lip of the boulder they hid behind.

The man was dressed in a top hat, a frock coat, and smart trousers with polished shoes. His outfit was all black. He had brown hair that seemed a little long for the rest of his appearance; making him seem a bit less stuffy in his aristocracy.

Peter glanced down at his crew. "Him? What makes you think _he's_ a pirate?"

Curly elbowed the others. "See? What'd I tell you? Idiots."

Slightly looked uncomfortable. "Well, what else could he be?"

What indeed? Peter turned his attention back to the stranger. The man was pulling what looked like a handful of pink sand out of his coat pockets, tossing it into the water.

Peter narrowed his eyes, raising higher to get a better look. If the man had looked up, he would have immediately spotted the airborne orphan; Peter was in riskily-plain sight.

Slowly the mermaids began to appear. They swam straight for the clouds of pink that the sand had conjured up underwater, the man backing away two steps.

As soon as the mermaids were hidden from view in the pink cloud, all except the ripples their tails sent to the surface, the man walked over to a smaller rock and kicked it with the toe of his shoe.

Suddenly a rope snapped straight into the air. Another kick to another rock gave the same result.

Peter stared with wide eyes. A net! A net rose out of the water, rolled onto the shore by the gentle waves of a calm sea. In it, the mermaids writhed and hissed, one brunette and another with large lavender eyes and angel-blonde tresses.

Peter went back to the lads. "He's captured the mermaids," he hissed, drawing his knife again.

The others held their swords up, but Peter gave them the hand signal to wait, then put a finger to his lips.

He floated out behind the stranger. The man was examining the mermaids up close, bent down within a foot or two of the creatures, confident they could do nothing to harm him while trapped tossing and turning in their net.

"Enjoying your catch?" Peter asked casually, landing.

The man whirled around, palms up. He seemed intrigued to find the lad standing there. And a curious sight he was against the more tropical background. Of course, it wasn't as if he himself wasn't an odd bit of scenery as well.

"Hello," said the man politely. "Who might you be?"

"I could ask you the same question," Peter replied, fingering his blade.

"Ah, but I asked first, young man."

Peter made a disgusted face. "I'm not a man."

"Boy, then?"

Peter smirked.

"Young boy, if you like. Your name?"

"Peter."

"Hello, Peter!"

Peter raised both eyebrows. "Who are _you_?"

The man offered a hand and the boy rejected it. "My name is Theodore P. Bludgeon."

A gruesome last name. Peter raised just one eyebrow now.

"What're you doing here?"

Theodore Bludgeon lifted his chin. "That, my boy, is my business. And what of you? How came you to a place as enchanting as this?" He tried an encouraging smile.

Peter ignored the stranger's obnoxious friendliness and his nosy question; instead he nodded to the mermaids, who had recognized him and were looking at him with the eyes of lost puppies, pleading silently with him to free them. "What're you gonna do with that lot?"

"I?" Bludgeon shrugged. "Study them, I plan to study them. Scientific research and all that, you know."

"You can't!" Peter argued immediately. "They'll die."

Another shrug. "Such is the sacrifice for science."

"You're not gonna kill them. You can't have them," Peter snarled. "Let them go." He pointed his dagger at the man.

"Ah." Bludgeon's pleasant expression disappeared in an instant and he glowered at Pan. "But I can't do that, Peter. You see, these creatures belong to me now, and I don't intend to release them until I have finished with the purpose they serve me."

The mermaids bared their fangs in unison and growled audibly at Bludgeon. The man didn't pay them any attention.

Peter curled his lip. "Let them go, or else."

"Or else?" Bludgeon blinked at him. "A lazy threat, that. Quite lacking in specifics, I'd imagine. And anyway, you are just a boy, and I am your superior in strength. In order to reach your monstrous friends, you will have to face me first." He advanced, pulling out a gun from inside his coat. "And that is something you may not survive."

If this false gentleman was expecting the boy to tremble or drop his knife or show any signs of surrendering at the sight of his weapon, he was disappointed.

Instead, Peter took a step toward the net.

Bludgeon did not hesitate to shoot at him, truly showing his colors. But when he did, the lad suddenly vanished. Bludgeon looked about, confused. He checked to make sure the mermaids were still trapped, satisfied to see them flopping about in their rope cage.

And then the strangest thing occurred: the sound of a flute could be heard echoing around the Lagoon.

In seconds Bludgeon was surrounded by more adolescent boys, each one pointing a sword at his throat.

Bludgeon did not stop to think where they had all come from, or what they were doing there. He turned in a full circle, standing over his catch greedily, trying to point the gun at each lad at the same time.

"Mind your head!" Twins advised the man cheerily.

Bludgeon was hit right on the hat with a mushy mango. Spluttering, he was now completely bewildered and very disoriented.

Slightly and Tootles pressed in from behind, their swords at his back. He stepped forward, ever closer to the boys in front of him, who gave him room to move by backing up but still kept him in a circle of blades.

There was a _shkashkashkashkashk thwack! shkashkashkashka thwack!_ just behind Bludgeon. The strange man turned around to see Peter kneeling beside the net, cutting the mermaids from their bonds with his knife.

When he saw Bludgeon looking, Peter stood, ready to face him. "Hullo there."

Bludgeon shot at him again, and was stunned to see Peter rocket into the sky.

The boy grinned down at him.

Bludgeon's gun hand shook. "You can _fly_?"

Peter crossed his arms. "Better than you, I expect."

Bludgeon got the nerve to fire at the irritating boy again, but Peter just dodged expertly. He had a knack for this, you know. He'd been up against bullets for quite a while.

Theodore Bludgeon was becoming impatient. But he was also very interested. Interested, that is, in the origins of these boys, especially Peter, the one who had such fantastical powers. He decided at that moment to lock the memory of his encounter away in order to bring it out and look at it again later, when he had more time to think.

And this was something he would indeed receive, for he had more than one trick up his sleeve. In a flash he pulled out a handful of blue sand, flinging it to the ground.

A second had not completely gone by before Bludgeon has disappeared in a puff of blue, without his scientific projects to accompany him.

"Witchcraft!" Slightly exclaimed. "The ol' devil's a wizard!"

" _It was some form of magic, yes,_ " Tinkerbell said, " _But it isn't magic I'm familiar with._ "

Peter was watching the mermaids, who were now free. He crouched beside the water. "What was that pink stuff he threw in?" He wondered aloud.

"More witchcraft?" Twins suggested.

" _Wizard_ craft?" added Tootles.

"The mermaids went mad for it," Curly pointed out.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "Tink?"

Tinkerbell flittered about his head. " _It could be bait of some kind,_ " she offered. " _I wasn't near enough to sense whether it was magic or not._ "

Peter dipped two fingers into the water, which had a slight trail of transparent pink still in it.

Slowly he cupped his hand, then brought it out and sniffed the water before tasting it.

Ravenously, Peter drank what was left in his palm, pupils growing larger, then his entire body locked up and he froze.

Tootles jiggled his shoulder. "Peter?"

Peter went limp, then sat up, knuckling his eyes. "It's enchanted for sure," he gasped. "He used it to catch the mermaids."

"What do we do now, Peter?" asked Nibs nervously.

"Bludgeon's gone," said Tootles.

"We keep an eye out," Peter ordered swiftly. "He wants research; he'll keep trying to get it. He'll be back. And we'll be waiting."


	3. Chapter 3: Wendy's Key-Keeper

"Don't do it, Maimie," pleaded Tony. "Not tonight."

Now, we have said before that Maimie was a very ordinary girl in the daytime. But at night? At night there was something quite dreadful that she would do, something that made Tony's skin crawl. He was certainly pompous and self-righteous all day long, treating his sister as an arrogant king would treat his lowest servant, but during the nighttime, all his pride and such would disappear for fear of what Maimie always did.

The night started out normally enough. Each time 8 PM came around, Ayah would make sure brother and sister had both gotten into their beds in their separate rooms. She would check that their teeth had been brushed, their nightclothes matching and clean, and their nightlights on. But it was after she had checked on them that things would begin to get unsettling.

Tonight, Tony and Maimie were in the hallway, just about to enter their rooms, climb into their beds, and go to sleep. But Tony had stopped his sister just before she'd gone to hers, already feeling the weight of what was to come.

"Whatever do you mean, Tony?" Maimie asked, cocking her head in a manner that showed she truly, genuinely had no idea what he was talking about.

You see, when Maimie did this terrible thing, she had no recollection of it the morning after. It was like sleepwalking; in some cases you didn't think anything of it upon awakening the next day, but your family or roommate can very clearly tell a tale that you have no memory of, a tale all to do with what you yourself said and did that night while not being fully conscious. I suppose Tony deserved what he got for treating her in a bad way during the daylight hours, however frightening Maimie's antics were. But you must remember: even gentle Maimie could slip up and act without her sibling's best interests at heart, and when she did, she did it very well, and so you ought to ready some sympathy for the boy just in case.

"That...that _thing_ you do." Tony glanced over his shoulder to make sure neither Ayah nor anyone else, even the cat, was listening to him begging her. "You know. It's...it isn't funny, Maimie, and I won't put up with it tonight."

"Tony," began Maimie with a serious look of concern upon her gorgeous features, "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean. Are you feeling ill?" She tried to feel his face, but he drew back.

"I haven't got a fever!" Tony snapped. "I'm not joking. You mustn't do it this time."

"Do what?"

"Into bed, you lot," Ayah said, appearing at the top of the stairs, clapping her hands.

And so the two teenagers went into their rooms and got into bed. Tony could not sleep. He eyed the door, certain Maimie would come in.

He didn't have any way of telling, but in reality thirty whole minutes had passed through the night before he was too tired to go on waiting in fear anymore; his eyelids grew heavy and he began to doze, letting his guard down.

It was at this moment that the door to his room opened and Maimie entered, looking every bit as awake as the next person, even if she was inwardly lost in a fog of sleepiness.

"Tony," she whispered.

The boy did not stir.

"Tony!"

Tony shot up into a sitting position, staring at her nervously. "M-Maimie, I mean it, don't start!"

"I heard it, Tony!"

"Heard what?" Tony knew he shouldn't have asked, but perhaps this time was different...

Wrong.

"It was them, it truly was!"

"Go back to sleep, Maimie," Tony pleaded.

"Did you hear them?" Maimie's voice was urgent, earnest, and quite genuine. "Did you hear them, Tony?"

Tony groaned. "No! I didn't! I didn't hear them this time, I swear, please, Maimie..."

"They're whispering. Outside your window!" Maimie stiffened and stared at his window, eyes wide, and she began backing up, but she did not leave the room.

Tony glanced at the window and could have sworn he saw something, a shadow, a figure, disappearing from view. He jerked his head back to his sister, breathing heavily.

"The phantoms," whispered Maimie.

You see, ever since he was little, young and impressionable in his toddler days, Tony had been led to believe by one of his schoolmates that phantoms—ghosts, creatures of the spirit-world and dead souls lost and looking for a host body, things like that all summed up in that one word by an ignorant little boy to the poor Mannering—were real. He'd stuck to this belief every night, and soon Maimie had begun to notice. Through the years, for no reason in particular and without any memory of it, Maimie had used this at night to antagonize and frighten her brother into losing large amounts of sleep.

"No, Maimie," Tony whimpered, very unbecoming for a boy his age. "There aren't any phantoms!"

"They've come, Tony, they're coming for us!"

"No, they aren't, Maimie!"

"For you!"

"No, stop it!"

"Can't you hear them?" Maimie hissed. "They tap on the windows; they're trying to unlock it!"

Tony gritted his teeth, trembling, the fear he'd had for so long overtaking his tired mind.

"There's a little girl phantom, Tony, and oh, her eyes! They've left their sockets! She's feeling for you, Tony, oh!"

Tony covered his ears with his hands.

Maimie was frantically waving her hands as she spoke. "And a man, an old beggar spirit, _tap-tap-tapping_ against the glass with his cane! Tony, he's watching you! He's looking all about you, Tony!"

Tony pulled the blanket over his head, shaking even harder.

"And oh! Oh, there's that goat, Tony!"

Tony had never liked goats. He had never really seen one in person, but Maimie made them sound so terribly ferocious in her phantom tales; she had the wicked knack for descriptions when the mood took her.

"The goat with the headless rider! Shoving his monstrous-sharp horns against the window! He's passed through the glass, Tony, he's coming for you! Oh, Tony, he's running right at you! Watch out, Tony!"

Tony couldn't take it any longer. Not bothering to see if the phantoms were really there (they weren't), he bolted out of the room, running as if his life depended it down the stairs, yelling for his Ayah and for his mother.

But when Ayah got upstairs to punish Maimie, they found her sleeping peacefully in her bed, looking as beautiful as ever with the nightlight giving her perfect skin a warm look, shedding a calm glow across her face and turning her brunette hair auburn. She wasn't shamming. She really was sleeping, and in the morning she would have no memory of this night's events in her mind to look back on.

But Tony would get no more sleep that night.

* * *

In the morning, after school, Tony and Maimie walked with Wendy down the streets of London, Tony running a stick along every fence, throwing rocks at every bird, and generally making a big show of himself in front of the Darling girl, trying to earn her attention. Wendy paid him practically no mind at all, preferring instead to whisper rhymes of Neverland in Maimie's ear as they walked. This irked Tony; no one could make him feel quite so invisible as Wendy Darling, the girl on whom he had a most enormous crush, although it remains to be seen whether he will admit this or not. He would rather it be announced the other way around, and often claimed this to his league of troublemakers in class, as if trying to gain their approval somehow, but no one believed him.

For it was clear to the entire school of children that Wendy Darling was a girl who was already in love, much to the disappointment of many of the adolescent lads. They could see it in her eyes; her heart was taken and only one had the key. One who had not yet been discovered with it, though everyone tried to see her catch a strange boy's eye some day, keeping watch to see which lad she spent most of her time with. Yet the only male company she seemed to care for was her brothers', John and Michael. The lads in school who fancied her were distraught; they knew nothing they did would sway Wendy's devotions to the unseen stranger she was so clearly infatuated with.

Only Maimie knew the receiver of Wendy's affections, and she had sworn to secrecy never to tell a single solitary soul on pain of isolation from her friend for the rest of their days.

"I say, Wendy," Tony interrupted them, "has my sister told you of my master plan yet?"

Wendy looked at him briefly and shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"It's so terribly brave, Wendy, wait till you hear it!" Maimie said excitedly. "Tony means to stay inside Kensington Gardens after Lock-Out Time!"

Wendy did not seem overly awed by this; she knew what bravery was and it was not sneaking about after sundown in the peaceful Gardens. You see, she was not easily impressed after the events that had taken place earlier last month and the things she had seen then. You would have to fight a pirate with one hand behind your back and only half your wits about you to even catch her attention now, something upon which she would stake her favorite belongings that Tony Mannering could never even attempt.

"Yes, well," said Wendy formally, "I should think you'd give your poor mother a terrible fright, staying out all night long without telling her where you are."

Then Tony said something that made Wendy think that perhaps he wasn't all pomp and self-concerned.

"She wouldn't care anyway."

Maimie seemed very eager to disagree with him.

"Oh, Tony, I'm sure she'd be very worried indeed!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," Wendy said kindly. "There is no love like a mother's love, you know."

"She shall have the door open for you, Tony, waiting for you to come back the morning after!" Maimie added. "I'm certain of it!"

But Tony had shut his ears to their reassurances, ignoring the girls entirely as he walked a little faster, a bit ahead of them until he could no longer hear their voices, pretending they were not there. Their pity was one kind of attention he did not enjoy a bit.

Wendy went home with them; she had already checked with her mother that it was all right to spend the night with Maimie. She did this often. Mrs. Darling knew it was because Wendy needed someone to talk to, someone her age and gender who could never tire of hearing of Neverland. Maimie qualified, though she didn't know that Wendy needed this because her great fear was that she would soon forget her adventures as time went on. Her father, George Darling, a delicate-minded man, had already been trying to dismiss it all as a dream that had infiltrated their minds one winter night, although this made little sense when the entire family knew otherwise. How, Wendy asked him tartly each time he insisted this, could so many people have the very same dream? None of the children believed his theory, and quite frankly, neither did he. Every time he tried to thrust it upon them in a flustered sort of way, John would pull a rusty pirate sword out from under his bed, Michael a Kaw feather decoration, and Wendy would rub her acorn kiss on the chain about her neck. Then all three would eye their father, bringing him these objects, and prove to him with the most silent, respectful little gazes that their time in Neverland was as real as you could get.

That night, as Maimie was chatting with Wendy in her bedroom about the Mermaid Lagoon, Tony listened by the door, intrigued. He had of course been eavesdropping at first in hopes that Wendy would be talking about him (a very interesting subject in his own opinion), but instead of leaving when he realized she wasn't, he stayed to hear about the queer, secret tales she actually was telling. It seemed mad, the very idea of mermaids, but then again he believed in phantoms, and so these creatures' existence could be something to consider. From what he could gather, Wendy had seen the storybook fish-people herself, in a world she called Neverland. At least, this was what she kept saying. He'd never been to any Neverland before. Ridiculous title.

"How many mermaids are there, Wendy?"

"Such a lot of lovely mermaids. They go about in twos, you see. There are ever so much more of them than I can count—at least that's what Peter says. I've never seen more than a few."

 _Peter_. Now, this name struck Tony as unfamiliar. There wasn't a Peter in their class, and he hadn't the slightest notion as to whom she could be referring.

"Does Peter see them often?" Maimie asked.

"Often enough, I suppose. They're quite beautiful, but very deadly, I ought to point out."

"How so?"

"They eat people."

Maimie gave a squeak of alarm. " _Eat_ people?"

Tony's head jerked in surprise himself. Cannibals! Or they would be, if they were fully human. What nonsense! But he was enjoying this, despite his doubts.

"They tempt them into the water and drag them away to...well, dispose of. Disembowel. Devour."

Lots of D words. Tragic.

"Goodness!"

"Yes. But they can be sweet as well, if they take a shine to you."

"Did they take one to you, Wendy?"

"Heavens, no. Not me. To Peter, yes, very much so."

"I should think so! He sounds so awfully charming."

"Oh, indeed. He is. They seem to like him a little too much, though, if you ask me."

"Do they?"

Tony did not hear her confirm it; she must have been nodding.

"They very much like his flute music."

"Oh, yes, you told me could play. Does he play it very well for them?"

"Exquisitely. If only you could hear it, Maimie! It's the most wonderful sound in the world."

Tony listened harder. Was that wistfulness he detected in Wendy's voice?

"He plays it in the sky, you know, and when he does it for them he tilts his head just so, like this, and he makes certain not to get too close for fear he should frighten them, and he kindly plays it soft, just the way they like it. Then he watches them with the deepest brown eyes..."

Tony's eyebrows lowered. Not just wistfulness—longing. Affection. So! This Peter was the boy everyone had been wondering about: the unknown boy who had clearly stolen Wendy's heart. Stolen it from _him_ , he reminded himself. Jealousy ate at his vitals, mixed with his arrogance. And what did she mean by _in the sky_? Did this Peter fellow live up in the air, in a tree, perhaps? How disgusting. How dirty. And such a lad lived in a whole different world than they themselves did? Preposterous! He refused to believe this fairytale boy was real, as comfort to himself. A figment of Wendy's imagination. How else could she find the willpower to reject Tony Mannering? You would _have_ to have made up someone entirely perfect to even come close to matching him! (His words, not mine. I am merely relaying his thoughts to you, dear reader. You see now how conceited Tony can be.) But, Tony realized, how could the love Wendy so clearly exuded for this stranger be for one who did not truly exist? Her affections seemed genuine enough. Such fondness didn't match up with an imaginary person. Peter must be real.

"How lucky you are to have him, Wendy!"

Oh, lovely. His sister was beguiled too.

"He must have been such a delight to have around all day long!"

"He was." Wendy's voice had grown quieter, sadder.

There was a moment of silence, and Tony dared not move for fear of making a creaking sound on the floor or giving them some other sign he had been intruding.

"Don't cry, Wendy, do dry your eyes," Maimie's tone was gentle and soft. "He will come back."

Tony heard Wendy sniffle. Girls. So irritatingly emotional.

"Come, let's get Tony and we shall all have some hot tea by the fire," Maimie proposed. She gave a gasp, the kind people do when they've just had what they believe to be a brilliant idea. "Perhaps you can tell him of Neverland too!"

Tony moved quickly out of sight, ducking into his own room, which was a door directly across from Maimie's. He kept it open a touch, just to be able to hear Wendy's response. If she agreed, he should have to be able to act as though he didn't already know what she was talking about.

But she didn't.

"No," Wendy replied, sounding stronger now. "It's our secret, Maimie. We mustn't tell anyone else."

"But Tony isn't like the rest," Maimie insisted, and Tony allowed himself a smug grin. "He can keep ever so many secrets! He's quite good at it."

But Wendy was wise; she knew this wasn't true, even if Maimie believed it was.

"Neverland isn't a place for just anyone," she said quietly, and Tony had to strain to hear her.

"Then who is it for?" Maimie asked eagerly.

Luckily, Wendy had it ready for her.

"For the innocent and the heartless."


	4. Chapter 4: The Stolen Seed

Peter wasn't tired.

He wasn't. He was...worried. Thoughts of Theodore Bludgeon kept him awake. He didn't think himself Neverland's sole protector. The Indians, for instance, could look after themselves. So could most of the wildlife. But with a scientist of some kind here, hunting the more mythical creatures, wasn't it his duty to help rescue them?

And that was another thing. How had Bludgeon managed to get to Neverland? Both orbs, in both worlds, had been disposed of. He himself, personally, had been the one to dispose of them! To have found the orb in London, Bludgeon would have had to infiltrate a certain house, one that would be well nigh impossible to predict as the location of the circular portal, without being caught, to remove it from its hiding place, and to hit it without causing a ruckus, hard enough to transport him here. Peter shuddered to think what would have happened if the Darling family, living in that house, had been caught in the orb's destructive flash. Had they been brought here? The entire family? Just some of them? Were they all right? Should he go looking for them?

Wendy. He'd forced himself for what felt like ages now not to think of her. He'd missed her every moment since the instant he'd shot through the second star to the right, returning to Neverland after bringing the Darling children home. He hadn't stopped missing her. It ached inside him, leaving his heart full and empty at the same time, gnawing at the thoughts on the outskirts of his mind like a sickness. He couldn't forget her, obviously. But with the mystery and troubles at hand, he now, more than ever, had to put her out of his mind.

He had to find out what Bludgeon was up to. How he'd gotten here, what he planned to do to this world. Peter knew he'd become something of a legend in Neverland: a flying boy, mostly human apart from sacred mineral dust flowing in his veins, therefore partially tree-spirit. The Indians knew him and were his allies. The pirates, what was left of them, feared him and were his enemies. The creatures were painfully conscious of his existence; they mainly revered him. He was something dominant they'd never encountered before.

This position, plus his many experiences that made him streetwise in this land, made Peter feel responsible for some of the important goings-on in his magical home. Such as a strange man who had managed to come and apparently had the means to trap and possibly kill some of the rarer beings that made Neverland so unique and dazzling.

No, he wasn't tired.

But he was worried.

So he stayed awake.

And it had nothing to do with the fear of nightmares.

He'd had his Mother Nightmare several times since the Darlings had left. More than he liked. And a new nightmare since Hook's death. The nightmare that he lost everyone he cared for. The nightmare that Hook murdered the Lost Boys in cold blood, throwing them to the crocodiles in the sea below and, worse still, slitting Wendy's throat with his iron claw. It always ended that way. He lost Wendy last of all, and the part that made it truly a nightmare was the fact that he was frozen the entire time. It never allowed him motion. He could do nothing to save them.

Peter Pan was not easily frightened. But this dream never failed to terrify him back into the waking world, tormenting his nights and robbing him of rest.

 _We won,_ he would remind himself. _It didn't happen that way. Wendy is alive. The lads are here safe._ But his subconscious refused to believe him and he would receive the same ghostly visions the next time he shut his eyes.

All right, perhaps it had _something_ to do with the fear of nightmares.

Peter stayed up until dawn. Or at least he tried to. Exhaustion finally made him sleep for about an hour until, without warning, Tinkerbell entered his room and tugged at the strands of his black hair, shrieking in his mind for him to wake up.

" _Get up, Peter! You must get up!"_

Peter was so entirely deep in sleep that she had to get Nibs to rouse him.

"What's wrong, Tink?" Nibs asked as he stood over Peter's bed, a little hesitant to wake his leader.

" _You can't feel it,_ " Tinkerbell told him urgently and apologetically. " _Only Peter can understand._ _We must warn him!_ "

This only made poor Nibs that much more bewildered, not to mention irritated, having to wake up so early and then not to be told exactly what was going on. But nevertheless, for his fairy friend's sake, he shook Peter until the boy stirred.

Peter's head lifted and his eyelids fluttered. "What? What is it?" he mumbled groggily, desperate for just a little more sleep.

" _Wake up. Can't you feel it in the air?_ "

"Feel what?" Peter sat up with an extremely disturbing case of bedhead.

" _Outside. Get out of this hole!_ "

Tinkerbell's voice echoing in his head was agitated and wary. Peter was beginning to feel the same way. Oh, why couldn't they have left him to rest?

He flew up one of the tree slides and Nibs and Tink followed him. The second he was outside, it hit him. Restlessness. A sudden nausea. A burning sensation that made his entire body tingle with unease.

"What's happening?" he murmured.

" _Someone has taken something that does not belong to them,_ " Tinkerbell warned. " _And the signs have only just begun showing themselves._ "

"What have they taken?" asked Nibs, confused. He, for one, could feel absolutely nothing.

" _Something from my people. Something sacred. Can't you tell, Peter? The trees are as ill as we are!_ "

Indeed, Peter had begun to get dizzy with vertigo. "Bludgeon," he announced. "Bludgeon's done something. He's messed with the tree-spirits."

"We have to help them!" Nibs insisted.

Peter turned on his heel. "No," he said firmly. "You're gonna stay here till the lads wake up, Nibs, and when they do, act as normal as possible. When we find Bludgeon, I'll send Tink to bring you lot as backup. All right?"

Nibs nodded, ready to be of service in any way he could. He really was a sweet boy, even if he was more than a little quiet.

Peter and Tinkerbell took to the sky.

"Wait! Peter!" Nibs called, but they were already gone. Grunting, he finished to himself (he might as well), "What do I tell the crew?"

* * *

Peter scoured the forest from a bird's-eye view, looking for any signs of Theodore Bludgeon. He had to be here. Who else could tamper with the land like this? Not Hook. He was sleeping with the fishes. Not the pirates. Too dim-witted.

 _This saving the day business isn't much fun_ , his innocence whispered to him.

 _I know,_ replied his ordinary self. _But if I don't do it, who will?_

The innocence was overpowered by this, as it had no real answer, and decided to keep silent.

" _This search is pointless, Peter, we must find my people. They can explain what's happened and we'll move from there!_ " Tinkerbell said.

Peter glanced at her as he dodged a passing cloud. "Oi, who made you the leader of this mission?" he teased.

" _This isn't the time to be cheeky,_ " she responded dryly. " _Head for the colony_!"

He obeyed, joking aside, and by the time they reached the tree-spirit forest, lunchtime was upon them. The tree-spirits were not allies to the Lost Boys, Peter especially. They steered clear of him with something like fear these days. They had saved his life graciously during the first day or two that Peter had spent in Neverland, doing so by letting him bathe in the mineral dust springs in their home, giving him the power to fly and enhancing the innocence in his heart, which would later cause much trouble for the boy. He betrayed them (quite by accident) by trusting James Hook one last time. He paid for it, not with his own life, but with the lives of practically all of Tinkerbell's people. The elders of her colony had tried to take Peter's memories from him twice before as punishment, once the night their home had burned away to nothing, and another time when Wendy and the Darlings had been in Neverland. Both times Peter had been cured.

When the elders had heard that they could not punish him in this way, they had decided not to interfere with Pan any longer. The rebuilding of their home and people had taken months and all of their focus. Besides, they deduced, it was clear that Peter Pan couldn't be broken easily, and was someone to be avoided, however much they regretted granting him his magical abilities.

Peter had no love for the tree-spirits either, not after what they'd done to him. Yes, of course he felt terrible for what pain he'd caused them, but they'd banished his dear friend Tinkerbell from their ranks very unfairly, and had tried to rob him of the memories he'd needed very desperately at the time. In his opinion, they deserved nothing short of the cold shoulder from him.

And anyway, they were thriving now, weren't they? Indeed, as he looked down on the columns of trees and roots in the glittering wood below him, he spied far too many new tree-spirits to count. In fact, it looked as if they had succeeded their original number and had an even larger colony than before.

With a glance at Tinkerbell, Peter dove down among the trees, landing on his feet, thinking that perhaps it wouldn't anger the elders as much, seeing him here, if he wasn't showing off the power they'd given him.

"Where would we find them?" Peter asked Tinkerbell in a low voice, glancing about at the tree-spirits who whizzed by, ignoring him as if he weren't there. They all seemed in a rush, very busy.

" _They gather around the tallest of the trees, probably the oldest. It is where they spend most of their time._ "

"Why?" Peter's curiosity controlled his tongue as he marveled at how quickly the colony had grown, walking along with his head turning this way and that.

Tink's tone was contemptuous. " _To talk about things that don't matter and act as if they're doing something important,_ " she grunted.

Peter gave a half-smile at this, amused.

He noticed pleasantly that none of the tree-spirits were attacking him. Probably due to their naivety. He was on his guard; his very first encounter with these small creatures had been deadly. He knew how fierce they could be when feeling threatened.

Peter nodded to two tree-spirits as they came closer to him, staring as if he were the strangest creature they'd ever laid their teeny eyes on.

" _Who are you?_ " asked one. Its voice sounded garbled in his mind, like it wasn't used to speaking in thoughts.

"Peter," Peter replied aloud, dipping his head yet again. "I'm here to help."

Exchanging terrified glances at the sound of his name, the two young fairy creatures immediately darted out of sight.

" _Don't pay them any mind, Peter,_ " Tinkerbell ordered. " _Find the tree._ "

"Right, yeah." Peter really wished he could fly. It was so much easier, you know, than just plain old walking. That is to say, your feet have a sudden laziness come about them, as if once they've become accustomed to a lack of use, they never want to touch the ground again.

When they discovered the tree, Peter decided it really wasn't all that grand. It seemed to have survived the destruction of the first colony, but its leaves were all dead due to the fire it had endured, its once-sparkling-with-mineral-dust branches blackened.

Hovering just above the tree were the three elders. Peter could not hear their conversation fully, but he picked up worried voice patterns and pieces of it echoing through his brain.

" _I'll fetch them,_ " said Tinkerbell, and away she went.

Peter itched to shoot up after her, but he forced himself to stay put. Soon the elders approached him slowly, and he could actually _feel_ the hatred in their gazes as they looked down at him.

" _What business have you here?_ " The elder in the middle demanded furiously.

"I've come for answers," Peter responded, raising his voice so that they could hear him as they floated above. "Tell me what was stolen from you!"

" _That is no concern of yours,_ " the lead elder snapped.

"I want to help," Peter explained, shifting his weight to his other foot.

It was the wrong thing to say.

" _You_?"

" _The last time you gave us your assistance, we lost everything!_ "

" _It was a mistake we paid for dearly._ "

" _And it is not one we will make again!_ "

They fluttered toward the top branches of the great tree, coldly refusing to let him respond to their faces.

"Wait!" Peter flew up after them, Tinkerbell at his shoulder.

The elders each turned, one by one. Peter heard Tinkerbell snort with exasperation in his mind. They could be so dramatic.

" _Return your feet to the Earth where they belong, ungrateful whelp,_ " one elder growled, his aged hiss vibrating through Peter's brain. " _You will get no answers from us._ "

"I just want to know what's going on," Peter insisted through his teeth. He scoffed when they only stared at him contemptuously. "Come on, you've gotta know something!"

But the elders refused to reply, acting as though Peter and his outcast friend were no longer there.

" _Leave them to their sulking, Peter,_ " Tinkerbell advised. As they left, she glanced back over her silver-blue shoulder. " _The way they carry on, one could almost call them half human!_ "

At this, the lead elder finally responded, calling out with his mind, " _An experiment of human alchemy has no room for insults_!"

Peter had to pinch one of Tink's wings to keep her from blasting them with energy the way she did when she became angry, flying in the opposite direction of the largest tree.

"Maybe one of the others knows what's going on," Peter murmured, landing again.

Tinkerbell hovered around his head. " _Don't be ridiculous. They're practically newborns; they'll be as daft as Slightly in the early-morning hours._ "

"We'll see." Peter approached a group of young tree-spirits who were flitting around nervously. "Get their attention," he whispered.

Tinkerbell flew up to them. " _Hello,_ " she began politely. This seemed like a calm way of getting anyone's attention.

A chorus of similar greetings came from the crowd. Well, actually, some of them refused to respond to her, but they did seem to enjoy giving Peter once-overs that suggested he'd grown a third eye.

" _This boy is here to help us,_ " Tinkerbell told them. " _He is Neverland's chief protector._ "

Wisely she didn't mention his name, but the title of chief protector made Peter feel weighed down with responsibility already. He didn't want to be chief protector of an entire land, whether it was home or not.

" _Please, we need to know what has happened here. Do any of you know anything?_ " continued Tink.

One of them floated forward. His glow was brighter than the others', the music from his wings a bit louder; he was clearly the oldest out of all of them.

" _Have you not read the signs?_ " he asked, in the voice of one who thinks it his due to always be taken seriously.

"What signs?" Peter asked.

" _The wind has ceased to move. Our forest is troubled. A seed has been stolen._ "

A chill ran up Peter's spine. He didn't know why; but somehow the thought of one of Neverland's mystical tree-spirit tree seeds being taken from its natural habitat (the soil of the fairy-like creatures' territory) made him uneasy.

"Who stole it?" Peter asked.

" _We don't know who stole the seed, nor when it was stolen._ "

"How could you miss something like that?" Peter demanded.

" _I told you, Peter, it takes a good long while for any signs to show after a single seed is taken from our forest,_ " Tinkerbell explained soothingly. " _It happened once before, when the Indians first encountered our people, but we were able to form an alliance with them and get it back._ "

Peter ran a hand through his hair. A solitary seed? Maybe he wouldn't have to do anything rash. How bad could this be?

The tree-spirits seemed to hear his thoughts.

" _The newest of us don't know how this loss will affect our home,_ " warned another bold tree-spirit, a female this time.

" _It depends on where it was taken, whether it was planted or not,_ " added the first.

Peter glanced at Tinkerbell. "Right, I think we've got an idea of who stole the seed," he told Tink. Then he nodded to the others. "Um, thank you, you've been very helpful."

They watched him go, more out of respect now than how queer a human appeared among their kind.

"What was that about newborns again?" Peter shot a sideways glance at Tinkerbell.

" _Being ignorant is nearly the same as being daft,_ " she muttered. Changing the subject quickly, (she did not like to be proven wrong) Tink added, " _How do we know it was Bludgeon, Peter?_ "

"Think about it, Tink. Who else would want it? The pirates are too thick to even think of stealing one of your trees' seeds. The Kaw tribe wouldn't do something like that. It's gotta be him."

So they searched the islands once more from the air. Peter tried to focus on the land below them, tried to spot anything suspicious, but he was too busy thinking about all the possible places Bludgeon could be instead of actually using his eyes. He'd tried to capture the mermaids. He seemed to know just what to do to draw them into a trap, what with that weird sand collection in his pockets. He must have caught them before; studied them to know what would lure them. Peter felt anger boil within him. The creatures of Neverland were not ordinary beasts to be caged and examined like zoo animals. They were intelligent, wondrous beings that deserved to be where they belonged, where they felt safe and comfortable. Wasn't that what every living thing wanted, really?

So it stood to reason that Bludgeon would be looking for something else to dissect. Something he didn't know enough (or anything, really) about yet. _Think, Peter,_ he told himself. _What're some of the most interesting things Neverland's got to offer?_

Of course.

Peter changed direction immediately.

Tinkerbell noticed and followed. " _What is it?_ " she asked. " _Have you seen something?_ "

"I know where he's gonna be."

" _Where?_ "

"The Neverpeak."

Tinkerbell's wings beat faster; the jingling music they made became more upbeat. " _What for?_ "

"He's looking for the Never Bird!"

Without any more questions, Tinkerbell decided he must be right. Neverland really had only one original bird of its own: a white, delicate thing about the same height as you, with eyes that changed colors with its moods. It had the strangest squawk; sounded like every animal you've ever listened to and then some. It had spotless, soft feathers and legs that appeared to be covered in fur like nothing you're familiar with. It had long talons to protect itself and could glide for up to 3 hours with just one flap of its wings. It was truly the most interesting animal living in Neverland.

They made it to the Neverpeak around sunset.

You've probably seen the Neverpeak before in your dreams. Or rather, you've fallen off of it. I'm afraid that's a common thing to do. You see, it's a mountain that is so dreadfully high that its top had passed the clouds. If you've made it all the way up, that's brilliant. Many children can say that, though. Of course, you've probably forgotten your name and what on earth you're doing up there by the time you reach the end of it, and before you know it you're falling off of it and you have to say goodbye in the same breath you say hello. It's only a wide clearing of rock at the Peak, nothing special. Unlike certain rumors, it isn't impossibly thin and pointed up top; it's flat as if it's been cut through. And there rests the nest of the Never Bird.

Peter had only ever seen the Never Bird when its shadow covered him as it glided through the skies above, or when it was catching fish and attacking crocodiles. It wasn't that the Never Bird was overly aggressive; on the contrary, she was delightfully mellow. No, the crocodiles had started it every time, snapping at her as if they should like to take a bite out of her, but she proved that this would be incredibly difficult to do once she had poked out their eyes with her stick-like beak.

Peter landed on top of the Neverpeak. Tinkerbell had some catching up to do; she arrived with aching wings just a few minutes after him. Although Peter had flown less than she had in his life, he was so eager to get to the top as quickly as possible that his willpower had merely given his physical strength and mental focus a boost, taking him right to the Peak without delay. Tinkerbell just wasn't used to traveling this high up.

Ducking behind a very large boulder (he seemed to do quite a lot of that these days), Pan and Tink waited, watching as the Never Bird approached the Peak, circling it in the air.

It landed in its nest, but the second it settled down, something seemed to set off a trap: a net wrapping itself around the bird, tightening painfully on all sides. The Never Bird's neck was bent, weighed down by the ropes that seemed too heavy to be normally-made.

Peter gripped the side of the boulder behind which he hid, anger already coursing through him at the sight.

" _What is it with this man and nets?_ " Tinkerbell said tartly.

Peter didn't respond; it was all he could do to keep back and scan the clearing for signs of Bludgeon.

Sure enough, out he came, slowly, eyes on the magnificent bird. The Never Bird was trying to snap the ropes of the net with its beak or cut it with its talons, but for some reason the trap refused to break.

Bludgeon straightened his coat and gazed at the creature. "Extraordinary," he murmured, getting close enough to examine the feathers.

The Never Bird twisted her elegant neck around to take a finger from him, but he backed away at the last second, getting his hand cut instead.

Peter saw fire light in Bludgeon's eyes at the sight of the minor injury the beast had given him. The stranger reached for his pocket, and Peter flew out from behind the boulder.

" _Peter, wait!_ " Tinkerbell began, fearing for her friend's life.

"Get away from her!" he snarled.

The Never Bird's eyes locked on the boy and she began to panic, seeing now that there were two threats to her safety; she thrashed and entangled herself even further in the net.

Bludgeon turned almost expectantly, gun drawn. "You again," he tutted. "D'you know, Peter, I might have to make a habit of using you as target practice."

"Have at it," Peter sneered, lifting into the air.

But Bludgeon did not shoot. Instead he watched the lad with a look very similar to the one he'd given the Never Bird and the mermaids. "You _are_ quite a marvelous specimen, aren't you, boy? I should very much like to study you. Once you're immobilized, of course."

He fired.

Peter dodged without much effort; he was faster than the bullet when his anger fueled his movements.

"What've you done with the seed?" Peter demanded, ignoring that.

A flicker of surprise crossed the man's bearded face. "What seed?"

"Don't play stupid, Bludgeon. The tree-spirit seed. Where did you take it?" Peter pointed his dagger at the stranger.

"Ah," Bludgeon's mouth curled into a nasty smile. "That seed. Well, I can't imagine it's any of your business, is it, Peter?"

Peter was not in the mood for stalling. He was not in the mood for wasting time. He'd spent the past few days trying to figure out what was happening in Neverland, freeing poor creatures from this ridiculous oaf's schemes, and trying to right numerous wrongs all in one go. He was a child; he wanted adventure and fun, but this was getting tedious, being a guardian to an entire world. He hated being ignorant in anything important; Bludgeon's origin, for example, was a mystery to him. And now the man was meddling with Tinkerbell's old home and a vital tool for her way of life. This was enough to go on when it came to sudden action.

Peter was swooping toward Bludgeon in a flash; the stranger barely had time to duck before the gun was in the flying boy's possession and pointed right at him.

"Let the Never Bird go and tell me where you've hidden that seed," Peter warned, cocking the weapon.

The Never Bird grew still, gathering from the tone of Peter's voice that he was not on her captor's side. Her eyelids fluttered; she was breathing heavily.

Bludgeon's hand began moving toward his coat pocket, the other palm up in the air.

"One move and I'll fire," threatened Peter.

The hand froze.

"Don't try anything," continued the boy. "Free the bird."

"Oh, but you told me not to move," sneered Bludgeon, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Do it."

Bludgeon did a remarkable thing under the circumstances. He snapped his fingers, and the net released the Never Bird. Unfortunately the poor thing must've been tired out, or else the net was enchanted, because the creature was fast asleep by this time, limp in its nest. Definitely enchantment, yes. No animal under such duress could just fall asleep like that.

"Now tell me," Peter hissed through his teeth, finger on the trigger, "where is the seed?"

"That old thing?" Bludgeon smirked. "Why, it's far from here, Peter."

" _Where_?"

Bludgeon turned out not to be so very brave on the wrong side of the gun; he was visibly sweating. His tongue seemed cocky enough, though.

"In another world, as I recall. You do know there are others?"

Tinkerbell shot to Peter's shoulder, gasping, " _He's taken it out of Neverland?_ "

"What other world?" Peter demanded.

"A place called London. Perhaps you've been there?"

 _London._ The blood ran cold in Peter's veins at this. A tree-spirit tree seed from the Neverland, taken to the ordinary world? It should be useless by now, unless...

"Did you plant it?"

Bludgeon did not respond, licking his lips.

"One more chance." Peter tightened his grip on the trigger.

"Yes," Bludgeon spat. "Yes, I planted it. All the powerful properties it possessed and you think I'd leave it in this hole, this land that has so many mystical wonders already? I'm far more intelligent than that. The power that seed contained deserved to be shared with the people from our world! Don't pretend you aren't familiar with it; the clothes you wear prove otherwise."

Peter didn't bother glancing down at himself at this as most people would do. He just kept the weapon trained on his enemy. "D'you have any idea what that could do to the tree-spirits?"

"Do you?" retorted the man, eyes glittering with contempt.

"Without the seed, their forest will get weaker. It'll die. They need their habitat to survive." What they actually needed to survive was the mineral dust spring in their territory, the dust that the trees gave off and was taken to the springs. But Bludgeon certainly didn't need this information.

"Many species become extinct," shrugged Bludgeon. "Perhaps it is their turn here. At any rate, I expect the tree is fully grown and thriving by now."

Peter's eyebrows dipped. "What d'you mean?"

Bludgeon curled his lip in a smile.

" _He planted it,_ " Tinkerbell was murmuring. " _He must have done it years ago. Peter, Bludgeon has been in Neverland far longer than we expected!_ "

Bludgeon had heard her; she was not exclusively speaking through thought to Peter. Her revelation only widened his smug smile.

Peter flew closer, enhancing the danger of the gun, it being so near to its target. "Tell me everything," he ordered in a voice that demanded he not be denied what he asked for. "Where did you come from? How did you get here?"

But Bludgeon closed his mouth, palms still up.

"Start talking," Peter growled, "or there'll be a bullet between your eyes. I'm not afraid to kill."

"Very well," Bludgeon replied airily. "I can see you're a much more interesting being to behold than I had originally thought. You see, I came here after a friend of mine, many, many years previous to this one. Perhaps you've heard of him. A Dr. Fludd?"

This shattered Peter's cold outward appearance. Fludd. The alchemist who had befriended him briefly, who had given Tinkerbell a boost in her powers and a name to set her apart from the rest of her people, the man who had died giving Peter and Aaya, the Indian princess, a head start against the pirates during Peter's first adventures in Neverland.

His hand lowered the gun at the sound of the name. This was a mistake.

Bludgeon grabbed a fistful of blue sand from his coat pocket, backing with incredible speed toward the sleeping Never Bird's nest.

"I believe that's all the time I've got for interrogations today. You must understand something about the way I operate, Peter," he called to the lad.

Peter shook himself from his daze of memories and immediately pointed the gun at Bludgeon's head, but the man seemed not to care.

"If I cannot manage to be the first to examine a creature," continued Bludgeon, "no one can."

And with that, he gave the nest a great kick with his foot, then disappeared in a cloud of blue.

"No!" cried Peter.

Over the edge of the Neverpeak the nest tumbled, unconscious Never Bird and all.


	5. Chapter 5: Worse Than We Feared

Peter dove after the Never Bird, the sleeping creature not even opening its eyes as it fell. His stomach flopped and his heart was in his mouth as he went down, down, down...

The nest remained perfectly still as it descended, as if the weight of the bird were keeping it from turning over itself in the air. This was good thing, because the further down Peter and the Never Bird rushed, the thinner the fog became, and so he could see they were about to crash into the sea.

Peter willed himself to go faster, and soon overtook the nest, trying to slow its fall. The Never Bird was awake now, but apparently dizzy and it had a glazed look in its beady eyes, trying to fully shake off the drugged drowsiness as it watched Peter's gallant actions. One of the branches jabbed at the boy when he flailed, attempting to steady one side. The cut opened an old wound from Peter's last battle with Captain Hook: the slice down his arm from the pirate's iron claw.

"Agh!" Peter winced in agony as pain danced along his limb, and he let go of the nest, his willpower to stay controlled in his flight fading as his mind and the mineral in his veins focused on the discomfort.

" _Peter! You have to think happy thoughts!_ " Tinkerbell cried, speeding along beside his shoulder. " _Use the wind, ride it!_ "

"I can't!" Peter snapped in a yell, the salty air ripping into his wound, truly falling with the Never Bird now.

The Never Bird, alert by this time, let out one of its strange shrieks and spread its wings, catching an updraft and taking to the sky, the nest knocking into Peter without the extra weight to keep it still.

" _You have to delay the impact against the water!_ " Tinkerbell was still insisting. " _Think of something good! Slow your fall!_ "

Peter's thoughts were jumbled; he wasn't used to tumbling through the air, he was used to owning it. He couldn't capture a single tendril of logic and change it into a clear, cheerful sentence. His eyes closed tight, he waited to hit the waves.

Tinkerbell decided to use a trigger word she would was very reluctant to use, knowing it was Peter's only hope. " _Peter! Think of Wendy!_ "

It worked. The name sent innocence and the imprint of her features sparkling behind Peter's eyelids. Bark-brown hair, a blameless smile, the perfect amount of youth in deep blue eyes that saw the wonder in everything. Peter felt light fill him up and he glided a little, slowing down a bit, but certainly not enough.

Just as he was about to crash into the sea, something gripped the back of his coat. Peter's eyes opened and he glanced upward, head twisting to catch a glimpse of whatever had caught him.

The Never Bird's wings flapped furiously as it tried to lift him, but as it was only a little heavier and bigger than he was, it couldn't carry him as it would carry a fish.

Peter's innocent side reflected on how awkward it was to have the Never Bird attempt to save him and only flail its wings as it failed, drifting them both to a sluggish descent toward the water just two or three feet below.

" _Here! Peter!_ " Tinkerbell had found a large rock jutting out of the sea a little ways off.

The Never Bird caught sight of Tink's glow and chirred beneath its tongue (this sound can't really be described in writing; you'd have to hear it, but _chirring_ is really the only way I can put it). Then it directed its fall toward the rock, dropping Peter as gently as an animal can onto the stone.

The rock was uncomfortable to a teenage boy whose arm had already been hurt and begun to bleed, but he struggled to sit up and looked the bird in the eyes, nodding and hoping it knew he was thanking it.

The Never Bird's actions seemed to be those of gratitude herself; she perched over the boy on the rock, talons digging in just in case she should grow dizzy with drowsiness and lose her balance.

" _Are you all right?_ " Tinkerbell asked, hovering around him.

"I...I think..." Peter gripped his wound and winced. "Yeah. Yeah, no, I'll be fine Tink."

" _Can you fly_?" she demanded.

Peter closed his eyes and pictured Wendy's smile again. It was enough to lift him a few inches into the air, but it sent such dreadful pain zig-zagging through his body that he drifted back down onto the rock.

He shook his head. Then he clenched his teeth and shut his eyes again. "One more go."

" _No,_ " Tinkerbell landed on his shoulder, swaying a little with the breeze. " _You'll only make it worse._ _You mustn't stay here, Peter, not for long. The tide is rising._ "

They had to think of something quickly, or the lad would be washed out to sea. The thought of that saltwater coming into contact with his injury, even for a second, made Peter's arm sting all the more.

"You could fly and get the lads," Peter suggested.

" _What could they do?_ " Tinkerbell responded tartly. " _They'd break their necks trying to get to you._ "

"What about getting a few of the other tree spirits to lift me back?"

" _Yes, and then they'd drop you for the crocodiles._ " Tink's voice was dry in his mind.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "That was stupid. Sorry."

" _The pain is getting to you,_ " the fairy observed. " _Just lie there a moment, Peter; I'll think of something_."

Sometimes it was very taxing, the way she treated him, as if he were as fragile as a leaf. Peter did not want to lie there useless while Tinkerbell fretted over him. He had to get going. They had to find out _exactly_ how her colony would fare without that seed, and where Bludgeon always disappeared to.

" _The Never Bird!_ " cried Tink suddenly, disturbing his thoughts.

"What?"

" _Look._ "

The Never Bird was fidgeting now, scraping her claws along the rock she and Peter shared. Her nest was slowly floating toward them, flipped over.

The large creature began nudging it with her long beak, bringing the bottom of it down flat against the nearest side of her nest. The nest bobbed a little but didn't turn over again.

"It won't be much use like that," Peter told the Never Bird almost apologetically.

The Bird blinked its huge, intelligent eyes at the boy as if irritated with the interruption, then proceeded to continue hitting the nest.

" _Don't you see, Peter? The nest should make a terribly sturdy boat,_ " Tinkerbell explained.

With that, she flew over to it and gathered up a ball of her own mineral dust (the kind sprinkling off her body like raindrops) and dropped it upon the nest.

"Let's hope it's been saving happy thoughts, eh?" said Peter teasingly, clutching his arm and wincing.

" _Oh, do keep your cheek to yourself,_ " Tinkerbell replied in amusement.

"You're not the one laying here stiff," Peter chuckled bitterly. His eyes sparked silver with innocence and mischief as he added, "I'm bored."

" _You silly lad,_ " Tinkerbell snorted.

The Never Bird churred and they drew their attention to the nest. Tink's mineral dust had worked; with her song it lifted into the air a few feet above the water and the Bird was able to flip it rightside-up.

Then, without hesitation, the Never Bird took Peter by the collar of his coat in its beak and dropped him as gently as it could into the nest.

Peter flinched at the pain that zipped up his arm. But he could see what the Never Bird meant now.

"Tink," he ordered, "get the lads, tell them to bring the canoe the Kaw gave them. Let them drink from my mineral pool, all right? Sing that song. Just enough flight to get 'em here. I've gotta get back fast."

Tink understood. " _I'll be as quick as I can._ "

She shot off, Peter watching until she was no longer in sight. He turned to thank the Never Bird for the second time, and discovered she was not on the rock where he'd left her. He immediately looked skyward and spotted her circling very high overhead, as if on the hunt for creatures beneath the waves that could seek to take advantage of his predicament.

 _Funny!_ Peter's innocence gurgled in the back of his mind. Did she think him her own little egg now? If so, that was all very well and kind of her, but he was no one's tame little offspring. He could get out of this scrape himself, and he meant to show her.

He tried to wave her down, tried to explain he was all right now and that he had a plan, that she should get into hiding before Bludgeon made an attempt to 'study' her again. Of course the Bird was quite intelligent, but she was still an ordinary animal of sorts, and she could not understand his warnings. And I imagine that if she had, she would not have listened, so it doesn't matter either way.

But by and by the Bird did fly off a ways, and Peter heard a shout from further off. She must have seen his crew.

* * *

When the Lost Boys finally got Peter from the nest, rowing him back to the forest, they took him to the Kaw Tribe, much to the flying child's irritation. The Kaw were the only ones who knew how to properly treat Peter's wound at the moment. Normally the mineral dust in Pan's veins would heal him, but it was rather slow, and it would have been safer to do it manually, helping it along. Tootles had tried once to bandage and clean an injury Nibs had gotten from a nasty incident with a baby six-legged crocodile, and the result involved much yelping and cursing, and the boys had decided to leave that sort of care to their friends the Indians.

After a quick group discussion between Peter, his crew, and Tinkerbell, they decided to tell the Indians about the missing seed and Bludgeon's wicked schemes. They could use all the information they could get.

Shaka, the "Holy Man" of the Kaw, gave Peter a thoughtful stare as he listened. He and Princess Tiger Lily (or Aaya in their language) were the only two members of the Tribe able to speak actual English, and so had a closer relationship with the Lost Boys than the rest of the Indians did.

Tiger Lily was dressing the wound of a friend who had been bitten by a non-poisonous snake during grass picking for basket weaving. Peter could only tell she had been eavesdropping on his conversation with the chief and the Holy Man when she came over with an anxious look mixed with her pretty features.

"The snake that injured Spotted Owl had a strange look in its eyes," she interrupted. "As if it were trying to stay awake."

Peter tried to sit up, but Shaka gently pushed him back down with a stern frown as he wrapped the flying boy's arm in animal fur.

"You think Bludgeon could have done something to it?" he asked.

"What kind was it?" Twins added.

"The two-headed kind."

" _Two_ heads?" Curly curled his lip.

"Yes," Aaya responded. "They can only be found in the Neverland."

"Then it must've been him," Peter decided swiftly. "He's after all Neverland's weirdest creatures." He winced as Shaka tightened his makeshift bandage. "I've gotta stop him."

"By yourself?" Tootles' brow knit.

"He'll be wanting _you_ next!" Slightly exclaimed.

"Let us help," Twins added.

Peter was very grateful for their support, but as usual, he didn't want anyone taking risks for his sake. "It's dangerous, lads. If Tink and I—"

"You are not the only one who wants Neverland safe," Aaya told him sternly.

"And isn't more dangerous for _her_ than us?" Slightly shot Tinkerbell a glance, and she regarded him with indignation, lifting her little chin in a challenge.

" _I'm not afraid of Bludgeon,_ " Tink told them coolly. " _Where Peter goes, I go._ "

It seemed to sum up her relationship with the Betwixt-and-Between perfectly. Peter couldn't help smiling, just a bit, when he heard it.

Curly was fingering his croc-tooth necklace, giving them all a hard stare. "It's the same with us," he said, watching Tink. "We stick together."

There was a moment of silence as Peter lay, a hand on his wound's binding, mulling over the conversation. Of course it would be nicer to have his crew with him in all of this, but he'd seen what Bludgeon could do, and worse, he didn't know what else the stranger had at his disposal. Suppose all that powder stuff wasn't just for beasts or magical beings? What if he had something to deal with humans? Peter's nightmares were already fraught with guilt and bodies; he knew he couldn't add another to the list. Ever since he'd come to Neverland he'd been losing people left and right. He'd caused everyone grief and cost them loved ones—the Kaw, the tree-spirits, the Lost Boys. Even those bloody pirates.

But he also knew how much worse it could have been without his friends. Without the Indians and the tree-spirits, he would be long dead by now. Without Tiger Lily, he never would have found the second orb. Without Tink, he never would have thwarted the pirates on Bull Island. And without his crew, his family, he wouldn't even be in his right mind. He needed them, and if they wanted to help, he would be a fool to refuse.

"Right, we've got work to do," he announced, sitting up, and this time no one pushed him back down.

The others beamed at him, and he could feel their excitement. This was what living in Neverland, being forever young, was all about. A new adventure. Danger, blood loss, getting dirty? Try and stop them.

For the first time, Shaka spoke. "Stealing a seed from the tree-spirits is an act of great cruelty," he said. "If this man has taken what I think he has, it is far worse than you fear."

"What d'you mean?" Peter demanded.

Shaka closed his eyes for a moment. "I had a dream," he said quietly. "Last night I dreamt that the tree-spirits were in great distress. Someone had taken the last surviving seed from their original home."

Peter watched him, picturing what Shaka must have seen as he slept. Everyone who had hit the alchemist's orb—and gotten the full impact of its blast—had gotten the same strange dream every night since. It was a memory; an imprint of the night the orb received its power. The same night Tinkerbell received hers. Each person who struck the orb—Peter, Shaka, and while she was living, even Captain Bonnie—had been given dreams of the past and important events in Neverland. They came and went. Peter remembered his dream of the orb's infusion quite well even now, and he wondered, a little bitterly, why he had not yet dreamt of this himself.

 _From their original home_. Peter bit his lip for a moment. It had been his fault that the tree-spirits' previous colony, their whole world, had burned in a fire of greed and spite. He'd led the crew of the _Jolly Roger_ to the spot, after all, however unwillingly.

"The seeds of the colony's first forest lived many centuries," continued Shaka.

" _Yes_ ," agreed Tinkerbell suddenly, and Peter heard the sadness in her tone. " _The_ _mineral that the trees exuded could be harvested by my people, and stored underground in a secret spring._ " She turned to the boy on the bed. " _The same spring we healed you in, Peter._ "

Aaya shot Peter a glance when he wasn't looking. She'd always been a bit in awe of the dust mixed with his human blood, the sparkling silver staining his skin like birthmarks. Ever since she'd first seen him fly for the first time, she'd fantasized having such abilities for herself. Who hadn't? But the Kaw were a simple, wise people, and the thought of the otherworldly mineral flashing into the very ordinary, well-working human body she possessed was appalling after a while. It seemed unnatural to her, and so the daydream always fizzled out like the sparks of a campfire. She was content and pleased to be what she was. It wouldn't have been right otherwise. Of course, Peter hadn't any choice when he'd acquired the sacred power, and he looked uneasy to be talking of it now.

" _Because the trees were fully grown, and had been there so long, they were at full strength, and we never worried that we'd lose the mineral dust,_ " Tink went on. " _But when the pirates burned it all away…_ "

"You lost the mineral dust," Peter interrupted wretchedly, looking at the ground.

"It wasn't your fault," Tootles blurted, giving Peter an awkward, sympathetic look. "Jimmy tricked you."

Peter did not respond.

" _We didn't lose all of it,_ " Tink assured them. " _But it will take many years for the trees they grow now to achieve the kind of strength the others had, to replenish the spring. And without the seed from the first wood, we cannot hope to reach that strength._ "

Peter looked up, waiting for an explanation. Tinkerbell was not used to speaking to so many minds at once; her focus was usually only for one, and so she paused often.

" _The seed should have stayed in Neverland, to grow into a full tree and use its roots to extend power to the newborn ones._ "

"But Bludgeon took it," Curly finished. Tinkerbell nodded to him.

"It's in London now," Peter mused aloud. Eyebrows pinched in thought, he glanced from Shaka to Tinkerbell. "What happens when it grows somewhere else?"

" _It's difficult to say. Our magic isn't bred for the soil of other lands._ "

"But it's been years since he planted it," Nibs broke in, and someone was finally beginning to sound panicked. "It's gotta be full grown by now, yeah?"

"Your world," Shaka said, turning his centuries-old eyes on Peter, "is not ready for that kind of magic. If the people of your time discover the tree…"

"It'll be chaos," Peter whispered, horrified. If people from the modern world found the tree, they'd experiment on it, they might even discover the existence of Neverland. It was _definitely_ far worse than they had feared.

"Do your people know about this?" Aaya asked Tinkerbell.

" _They know that the seed was stolen, but not by whom, or that it was planted,_ " Tinkerbell replied, flitting a bit more quickly up and down in her worry. She was trying hard to show no emotion, not even in her thoughts, because her people were no longer _her_ people, but pride or no pride, the thought of their death—and indeed, her own—weighed heavily on her heart.

"We have to tell them." Peter stood, resisting the urge to wince. The pain was merely a dull throbbing by now.

" _You saw how they behaved, Peter; they won't listen!_ " Tinkerbell told him, alighting on his shoulder.

"We can't just leave them out of it," Peter retorted, even if he did sort of agree with her. "Maybe if they knew everything, they'd be able to help us."

" _That's only_ if _they want to._ "

Peter was already standing at the entrance to the tent. "Fine, stay here then."

" _Maybe I will_."

"What happened to 'Where Peter goes, I go'?" Peter looked back at her, mimicking her tone.

" _Don't be such a child_."

Peter raised an eyebrow at her, grinning his cocky grin. A few of the Lost Boys grinned too, and Aaya glanced up at the tree-spirit, trying not to laugh.

Tinkerbell fought to control her thoughts, so that they weren't projected. He could look so absolutely intoxicating with that smile. Her wings beat a little faster when he set those large brown eyes on her, challenging her. Stupid little beast. Stupid, wonderful little beast.

" _You silly lad,_ " she huffed, relenting, and flew past him out of the tent.


	6. Chapter 6: Worries For Wendy

In the house No. 14, bedtime was something you did not question. Nana, the nurse, was quite adamant that at 8 o'clock sharp, all children were to be in bed, sleeping peacefully, with not a button undone on his or her nightgown. She was a stern nurse, and a fair, obedient dog as well, and you can be sure that she never once forgot to smooth the covers before her charges climbed in for the night. Unfortunately, tonight, Nana was to rest in the kitchen downstairs. She was expecting puppies, you see, and her husband—Luath—had given strict, toothy orders that she was not to be disturbed.

This meant that Michael and John were up far past their curfew, and Mrs. Darling had to call Liza—the help—in to get them settled, as she could not raise her voice quite ungracefully enough to get their attention. Mary Darling had always been a soft-spoken, tender sort of woman, whereas Liza was the exact opposite in every way you could think of.

Wendy slept in another room, just down the hall, as her father had insisted a month or so ago—before the incredible adventures of the trio had begun—that it was time for her to grow up, and sleep in a room fit for a young lady, rather than in the nursery with her younger brothers. Wendy did not like this arrangement one bit, but her father could not be swayed, and it would not do to contradict him. She really was a well-mannered girl, but this was indeed cruel, even for Father, though he did not know the magnitude of it.

Ever since the three Darling children had gone to Neverland and back, the bond that they had shared before the journey had become much stronger in the face of danger and pirates and that nasty business. Separating them as if age was were a wall that had always been there, instead of just recently constructed, was intolerable.

So Wendy would often slip into the nursery when the adults were sleeping, and her brothers would be sitting up waiting for her. She would tell them a story (all to do with those magical, far-off shores of the Neverland, of course) or she might even sing them a song. Then she would climb into her old bed beside theirs, close her eyes, and feel perfectly at peace in the room where time had never harmed her, and she could be warmed by the four walls and arching ceiling that had watched her as she played for years, a contented child. If George Darling did not see the little girl in her still, the nursery would whisper it as she fell asleep, the way a mother will offer words of comfort when you bring her your latest scrape on your knee or your finger.

But tonight Wendy was not making her trip down the hall on bare feet. She stayed in her small, silent chamber and paced the floor. In her white nightdress and her silky, milk-colored ribbon still in her hair, she might have looked like a New Year's angel had a frown of distress not darkened her face.

Even the nursery could not offer solace tonight. Wendy was feeling a very grown-up kind of pain, worrying very grown-up worries, and she felt visiting that lovely, innocent room would be an act of vandalism. Certainly she did not want to taint its dancing coral wallpaper and cozy fire with her gnarled concerns.

She went to the window. It was always open, all through the night, even after Mrs. Darling closed and locked it before retiring to her own room. Wendy could not bear to have it remain shut. If Peter should see it that way, the glass shouting him off like a letter of disapproval!

 _Peter_. When Wendy had time to herself, indeed, hours to herself, he was always there, just hovering in her mind, where reality and the current beats of her heart could not reach him. The flying boy, forever thirteen, with his positively swept up black hair, and the threads of silver in his street urchin's garments. With that _melting_ smile.

No one could smile like Peter. Not a single boy in her class, not the older aristocrats attending Mother's highly anticipated dinner parties, not even the youngest toddler feeding the birds in Kensington Gardens. It was the most smug, confident, pleasant grin, rather cheeky and yet when he turned to her wearing it she could almost dance with joy. Once she might have been deserving of it, once she may even have been the reason for it, but no longer. It may have been a month, a month and a few weeks, but to Wendy time had become like syrup—it spread out and stuck in the most tedious of places, and the days were taking ages to disappear.

Out in the night sky, Wendy's eyes immediately searched for the glow of white, but it was not the moon she sought. She directed her gaze to the star just on the right of it, and then to the star beside that one. There it was. Neverland was so close! If only she could wriggle her shoulders and fly to it now, she would leave the warmth of this tiny room without hesitation.

But she could not hope for such easy passage. Nothing in life is ever so simple as that. She still had a few nights to go—and then it would be spring. The first day of spring. The first day of the holidays before that wretched last bit of school preceding the summer. Spring-cleaning time. Peter had promised he would return for her then.

There was a creak behind her. Wendy turned, startled, knowing she could not conceal the fact that she had been awake all this time, whoever may be spying on her.

But when she saw who stood in the passage, she let out a breath of relief. "Uncle Barrie?"

James Matthew Barrie, a wealthy, funny little Scotsman, lived with the Darlings at No. 14. It was, in fact, _his_ house, but he had been kind to the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Darling many years ago and had offered to allow them to share it with him. He had been with them so long, the children referred to him as their Uncle, though Wendy knew they were not truly related. Barrie had met Peter once, and when she had returned from Neverland Wendy had observed him making notes and writing quite furiously in his little black journal ever since. He had told her, and only her, his secret—he was writing a story, the best he believed himself to have written, and it was all about Pan.

"One canno' sleep," said Barrie, striding into the room, "when one can hear thoughts so loudly from the room across the way."

Wendy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm frightfully sorry, Uncle. I ought to be in bed."

"Nonsense," Barrie scoffed. "How can you rest, my dear, when you are so put out? Won't you tell me what troubles you?"

Wendy sat on the window seat, putting on her best blank expression. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

Barrie made a long _ohh_ of disbelief and sat beside her. She noticed he was still in his shirt, trousers, and waistcoat; he must not have been sleeping at all, but up quite late writing his tales.

"It isn't polite to snoop," said Barrie amiably, "but I canno' help but wonder whether or not your thoughts are painted the same as mine tonight."

Wendy loved the way Uncle Barrie could put things. She hoped someday she might acquire some of his vocabulary, though it would not suit her nearly so well as it did him. "What are they painted with, Uncle Barrie?"

"A name. I expect you know which." Barrie leaned toward her, the way he always did when he spoke of the place and people that George Darling strove so hard to forget. "Peter Pan."

Wendy flushed, but not out of embarrassment; Uncle Barrie could never make her feel foolish over herself. It was because she was so very vexed, and when you are angry or sad or frustrated, or—heaven forbid—all three, as Wendy was, your body cannot hold all the colors those emotions come with, so it mixes them into red and pours them out in your cheeks to make room.

"He will return, dear lass," Barrie told her, nodding as he watched her nightlight give a great yawn against the wall. "Did he not tell you so?"

"Ye—yes," Wendy stammered, fighting the blush. "But…but Uncle, it's already been so terribly long—"

"It hasn't been as long as all that."

"But it has, Uncle, really it has, because time is different in the Neverland."

Barrie raised an eyebrow. It was another of his more delightful talents; he could raise first the left eyebrow while the right was dropping down, and reverse the two, and many little children he met at the Royal Parks each day found this very entertaining. Michael still asked to see him do it at least five times each morning.

"It feels longer there, except that it also feels like no time has passed at all," Wendy continued, and now she was rushing so that she did not hear her voice break. "And the days nearly blend together, Uncle, and what if it passes him by and he—" she gulped, "—he doesn't remember to come?"

"And what if you believe he will?" James' eyes lingered on Wendy's nightlight, and it was a glazed sort of look, the same he donned when he was thinking of his story. "Believing something, Wendy, is a very large step in its coming true."

"Oh, but he must have forgotten me already," Wendy sniffled. And she tried to straighten up and look her confidant in the eyes like a lady would be able to, but it is difficult to do this through tears, so she kept her head bent.

"When I was there, Uncle, as I've told you, I—I came quite close to forgetting Mother. It's easy to forget in Neverland. Peter does so much! He fights pirates and he saves people and there can't be so much room in his head where—where time doesn't move—and—and you see I'm only _one_ and he's had so very many adventures…" She stopped very suddenly so that she could let out a bit that she was holding in, crying quietly to make space for more words, but Barrie did not let her continue.

"Oh, yes, I feel sure he does a great deal," James agreed. "Saving people, yes—fighting pirates, certainly, of course—why not? And aren't those all the sort of things heroes do?"

Wendy nodded, and she nearly cried harder, because knowing she was loving a hero sort of made the whole thing just a little more impossible, a little heavier on her.

"He gave you his word, didn't he? Heroes are the kind to keep their word, Wendy, their word is their bond."

Wendy looked up, wanting very much to believe this, and he was holding out his pocket-handkerchief to her. Politely she took it, dabbing at her eyes.

"I imagine nothing could stop Peter from keeping his word. He seemed that sort of person, hero or no."

"But—" and here Wendy voiced another great fear, one she had been keeping to herself, "suppose something makes him late? Suppose something comes up, Uncle? Suppose he is advised—by the Kaw, perhaps, or Tinkerbell—not to go?"

"Ah. Now." J.M. Barrie gave her one of his twinkly-eyed looks. "That's another thing about heroes. They rarely do as they're told."


	7. Chapter 7: Elders' Orders

Tinkerbell normally very much enjoyed it when she turned out to be right. She considered herself a cut above the rest among tree-spirits, really, and not just because of her enhanced glow. She was smarter, and felt more deeply than they did, though she suspected deep down that this was Peter rubbing off on her his very human tendencies. She liked to think she was right often, and it took a lot of self-control not to show this. But today, she rather hated being right.

The elders would not even look at them this time. They hovered above the charred, broken tree they called their council place, pouting like centuries-old children. Tinkerbell glanced at Peter, wondering how the boy would respond. Peter was a cut above the rest too, she would not hesitate to tell you, but his human emotions sometimes got the better of him. He was very in tune with them, and the addition of the mineral dust to his innocent heart made them increase tenfold. Should he become dejected, or worse, stubbornly insist they didn't need her people's help anyway, they would surely get nowhere.

" _You_ ," said the lead elder to Tinkerbell, with his back to her, " _are not welcome among us. And you_ ," he went on, and the pair assumed he addressed Peter, " _are an abomination to our world_."

Tinkerbell felt Peter's turmoil at the word abomination. A disgrace to Neverland, to the magic running through him. His very existence was offensive. Well, he hadn't asked to be this way, filled with something that did not belong to him. It was their doing, not his. It was what he went on being that counted. And he wanted to go on being someone who did the right thing, no matter how he was treated. This, Tinkerbell reflected fondly, was what made him so very different from the one called Hook, and from all the other humans; Peter was noble, he'd had a rough sort of life for one so young, and Neverland had made him better, not worse. An abomination to their world—certainly not.

"I want to help," Peter told them, in a much more controlled tone he'd used than the first time he'd said it. "I know who took the seed."

Then the elders looked at them. Rather, they looked at Peter. They seemed to see right through Tinkerbell, though tree-spirits will always have an acute sense of each other's presence; their minds interlock whether a sacred covenant has been broken or not.

" _How did you come across this information? Who told you what was stolen from us?_ "

"It's not important. It's been—"

" _Who told you_?"

Peter tried very hard not to be agitated. "Some of the others. Listen, it's been planted somewhere else. In my old home."

The second elder's expression was severe. " _This is a serious accusation. If what you say is true, something must be done immediately._ "

"It _is_ true," Peter insisted, and Tinkerbell could see he was relieved they were listening. She was more than a little surprised herself. But then, the elders would be fools to ignore such a warning. Their lives depended on this. "It was planted years back."

The tree-spirits were now staring at him with an intensity Peter hadn't seen since they'd met him.

" _Not only will our forest cease to thrive without the seed_ ," the first elder added, " _but upon the first day of the new season, what your kind call spring, when Neverland's magic is at its strongest, the tree the seed has become will spread its roots across your former world. Magic in a place it does not belong can be dangerous to those living there._ "

"I know," Peter nodded hard, trying to rush things along. This news wasn't making him any less impatient. "The Indians, one of them had a dream—it doesn't matter. Look, someone's got to—"

" _Who has taken it_?" the third elder demanded. " _Who is responsible for this_?"

Peter was all too willing to tell them. But before he could, the first elder spoke, his tone cold, and the other two turned from Pan to listen.

" _The natives have surely stolen the seed from our forest_." The way the elder said it made Tinkerbell think they must have been talking of something like this for some time now. " _They have always desired our power, envied our magic. We should have expected this_."

" _What_?" Tinkerbell cried, outraged.

Peter felt his fingertips go cold. He began to shake his head, hard and fast. "No—no, it wasn't them—"

" _Did they not know the consequences of the planting beforehand_?" the second elder snapped, turning back to him.

"Yes, but—it's not like that," Peter argued, becoming frantic now.

" _You said yourself they understood their actions well_."

"Don't be stupid, how could they plant the seed there? How could they even _get_ there? They're good people! They just wanna help!" Peter dropped just an inch in the air, struggling to control his flight as well as his emotions. This wasn't going well, not like he'd planned. How could they think the Indians had anything to do with this?

" _The Kaw have only ever been respectful of us_ ," Tinkerbell added, keeping her voice as even as she could. The first elder was eyeing her with contempt already.

" _Us_?" The second elder glared at her. " _You forget,_ you _are no longer one of us. A human name, an alchemist's toy—you have been plotting with the boy since before you were banished_!"

" _Don't be ridiculous!_ " Tinkerbell huffed, her neutrality ebbing. " _I've_ _only wanted good things for my people! Your arrogance is blinding you to—_ "

"Stop it!" Peter shouted. "This isn't helping, Tink! Now look, the Indians haven't done anything wrong. What we need to do is—"

" _You are not to interfere_ ," the first elder warned him, wings beating harder with every syllable. " _This is our business_."

"But it wasn't them!" Peter protested, eyebrows sinking low over brown irises that fizzed with worry. "You can't just—"

" _Were we not fools to trust a human once_?" snarled the second elder.

Peter fell silent, staring at them through filmy eyes. He hated the mistake he'd made, what he'd done to these creatures that had saved his life and gotten their family taken from them in return. It was something he thought of often, watching the pirates murder the colony in front of him. Sometimes he could still feel Hook's fingers gripping his arms, keeping him in place as the city of the tree-spirits burned. Peter had never wanted to run from a problem more than he had on that night.

Then, as Tinkerbell watched, he set his jaw and lifted a little higher into the air.

"You don't wanna trust me, fine," Peter hissed firmly to the leaders before him. "Trust the Indians. Who says they're the same as all the others? Haven't they been kind to you? Haven't you trusted them all this time? Trust them now."

Peter was very good at speeches. He could talk your teeth out of your mouth if he wanted to, and in the softest, most persuasive voice, too. Calm, in a way that made you think that of course he must be right. But the tree-spirits had long been clouded by bitterness now, and coming from this particular boy, advice was not welcome.

" _You dare give us orders, halfling_?"

" _You do not deserve the power you wield_!"

" _It was your arrogance and desire that ripped away everything we held dear!"_ The first elder grew closer to Peter, and the boy floated backward just an inch or two. _"We have seen the error in man, that which he always returns to. It is in the heart of all your kind—greed. There is no proof that the Kaw are not responsible for this tragedy. At dawn on the first day of the new season, we will confront the natives. If they cannot prove themselves innocent—_ "

" _I_ can prove it," Peter interrupted fiercely. "I'll show you they're not the ones. I'll bring you the person who's really behind this. I'll fetch the seed."

Tinkerbell shot him a glance of admiration. The way Peter spoke, he always made everything sound possible.

" _You will do no such thing_ ," the second elder growled. " _You have proven your skills useless in the aid of our people, even hazardous_."

" _We warned you before. Under no circumstances are you to interfere in this matter,_ " added the third. " _Begone_!"

Tinkerbell waited for Peter to argue, waited for the outrage. But it didn't come. Stunned, she watched as he rocketed further upward, toward the clouds, and began setting a course for the Indian camp. She zipped to his side, all the while looking back toward the weakening tree-spirit wood below them.

" _Is that it?_ " Tinkerbell demanded. " _Weren't you going to say something?_ _Peter?_ "

Peter turned to look at her over his shoulder, and she saw with an accelerated wingbeat that he had that flame in his brown eyes. He was thinking, long and hard, the sharp way only a cunning thief can think.

"Wouldn't've mattered if I had," he told her, furrowing his brow as he scanned the ground for the trees of the Kaw's home. When he spotted it, he dove, and she followed easily. "Come on, I've got a plan."

A plan! " _You aren't going to leave it be, then, I see,_ " Tink surmised, trying not to let her affection for his cheekiness leak into her spoken thoughts.

"Yeah, well." Peter rolled onto his back, letting the wind carry him down, blowing his midnight hair about his face. The cocky smile had returned.

"Since when have I done as I'm told?"

* * *

(Author: Sorry they're so short! Life is happening. Don't forget, I love reviews.)


	8. Chapter 8: A Bit Of A Row

Uncle Barrie was out, taking a walk in the park as usual before the daylight completely left, and Wendy was bored. It was the first day of the school holidays, though the first official day of spring was tomorrow. She would have been glad of the early freedom, but when your heart and head are in another world, nothing could be worse than time without anything to do in it.

You mustn't think Wendy was always melancholy now. She tried very hard to be her usual, chipper self, one who saw the wonder in things and loved to tell stories. But telling stories is all very nice until you've lived them. The memory of an iron hook to her throat sort of took the shine out of storytelling, you see. And as for wonder—oh, she still saw it, in snowfalls and fireplaces and the stars twinkling down at her from their nests in the sky. But it was a different kind of wonder, different because she had laid eyes on the real thing, and the things in our world do not hold the same magic as the things in Neverland do.

Uncle Barrie was the only person who understood when she talked of Neverland. Actually, John and Michael could understand her longing for Neverland just as well as Barrie. Really it was her longing for _Peter_ that they wouldn't understand, and James Barrie could easily comprehend her pain, and did not tire of hearing her talk of it. He did not, often, attempt to physically or verbally comfort her, but he merely listened, and this was comfort enough. She expected he knew that.

It had always been this way between the Scotsman and the girl. Barrie and Wendy saw things through the same sort of eyes, and the rest of the household used a different pair. This worried George Darling; he felt his daughter's bond with Barrie was proof of a lack of admiration for her father, but really that had nothing to do with it.

Wendy had tried to talk to her mother about Peter. She did not like to go on and on about him aloud, as she sometimes did inwardly, for fear of sounding blind or foolish over him. She had at first thought that confiding in another woman would be best, but when she came to Mrs. Darling with her poor, confused young heart, Mother only responded with pity and patronizing sounds. Wendy did not want pity. She wanted empathy. The two are not the same, you know. Besides, Mrs. Darling was out at a party at No. 17 this evening, and as it had begun to snow she might be late coming home.

In the end the only people who could give her what she needed remained J.M. Barrie and Maimie Mannering. Maimie, being of Wendy's age (or near it) and carrying a sweet nature, of course still gave her pity, as you have seen. But she listened as Uncle Barrie did, and better still, she could speak aloud what Wendy really felt and meant in her ramblings, and somehow hearing it put so correctly lifted the weight from her friend.

When Wendy was bored, she usually had a rousing game of pretend with her brothers. Sometimes they would pretend to be Mother and Father on the occasions of the three children's birth, taking it one at a time according to who came first. Wendy would play Mother, John would play Father, and Michael always wound up being all three of the Darling offspring. More often than that they played at being Hook and the pirate crew on the hunt for the Lost Boys, and before John could raise his hand and claim it, Michael would have taken the part of Peter nearly every time. Wendy would play Captain Bonnie, and her brothers boasted so fondly of her imitation that Mrs. Darling and Uncle Barrie would sometimes come to watch.

But John and Michael were both ill today with a heavy cold, which was really dreadful luck; it is beastly unfair to be off-color on school holidays. You never seem to be sick when it is convenient. And playing pretend by oneself was never as much fun as playing it with others.

George Darling never took part in these games, the way Mrs. Darling sometimes attempted to, and the way Uncle Barrie always could. He viewed the entire thing with a tolerance bested only by Nana. At the moment he was busy with his work in his study—stocks and shares and things like that, which Wendy knew little about—and he had a wet towel wrapped around his head so that he would not lose count.

Wendy decided she could at least be of use to her bedridden brothers, and went to see if they needed anything. But the moment she came in (the room was very warm; the fireplace was purring like a contented cat) Michael's head came off his pillow and he croaked out that he should like her to tell them a story.

She was not entirely in the mood for stories, for reasons we have already discussed, but looking at them, so miserable, she couldn't refuse.

"Once upon a time there was a boy named Peter Pan."

All her stories seemed to start this way.

"Peter lived in Neverland, that magical place where time does not move, and it was here that he vowed never to grow old. One day, he met three extraordinary children from our world—and he took them to this home of his for a time, to play with him."

They knew this yarn very well. John opened his eyes a little; he had been trying to sleep but could not resist listening to a tale told by his sister. Michael looked a little less pale already, eyes shining when Wendy spoke of the three children.

"Was I one of them, Wendy?"

"Oh, yes, Michael," said Wendy, and this was how it always went between them when the time for stories came, though they knew the answer.

"And me?" John added.

"Indeed you were."

"And you, too," Michael mumbled, leaning his head back against his pillows.

Wendy smiled. "Of course. Now don't interrupt—Peter took our young friends to Neverland, and there they had many incredible adventures. The first began when the wicked pirates—led by the evil, notorious Captain James Hook—kidnapped the princess of the Indian tribe, the Kaw."

"The People of the Raven," translated John in a very intellectual tone, the way he always did. The Kaw still fascinated him.

"Their princess, Tiger Lily, was captured and taken to Bull Island, where the villains tied her to the jagged stones jutting from the pool, and waited for the native underwater terrors to overtake her."

"Mermaids," Michael whispered, shuddering. This particular adventure, for you know it all really happened, was one that had stayed with the little boy in a very different way than the others. Ever since this event on Bull Island had taken place, Michael had dreamt feverishly of mermaids and their claws, waiting to drag him into the depths.

"Tiger Lily held her head high, though the tide would surely bring her demise, and indeed she could see the flash of a scale now and then. Hook paced the rocky shore, waiting. He was not a man who killed merely for sport—he had a plan. A plan to lure his foe, Peter Pan, into a trap that would end his young life."

John was sitting up now, and Michael pulled the covers up to his chin, both staring at her with faces that never seemed quite finished with these accounts. They could almost hear the splash of the mermaids' tails against the water, the smack of boots against stone as Hook paced, the wind howling through the wet caves at Bull Island.

"But Peter was far too clever for Hook." Wendy beamed as she gestured with her hands, even acting a bit of it out in front of their beds, on her feet and playing every part exquisitely as she narrated.

"He did not leave Tiger Lily to die, for he was a hero, and heroes will always do what is right." She paused here, and John gave her a queer look, for her face had become a bit blank with thought as she talked. She recovered quickly, masking it with the effort she poured into her tone. "There she stands, chin high, like her ancestors before her, with the water all round and mermaids flicking to and fro beneath it. Then she sees it."

"Sees what?" Michael cried, bobbing up in bed.

"A shadow." Wendy said it as if it were as rare as a fairy. "Peter's shadow was flat against the wall, and when she saw it, it was like seeing the sun after a terrible storm. There was hope; her friends had not abandoned her! Pan hid and imitated Hook's wicked voice thus: _Mister Smee! Release the Chief's daughter, for I have a new plan._ Unfortunate Smee unbound Tiger Lily, and Curly—one of Peter's crew—valiantly came to her aid."

John put his glasses on so that he could see his sister more clearly as she bounded about. "Did they escape the mermaids?"

"They did—but at a price. Brave Curly! He was wounded in the swim to safety, and the Lost Boys absconded with their battered companions, returning them to the home under the ground where they could be cared for sufficiently. The only people left of the righteous group remained the three children and their hero—"

"Peter!"

"What happened to him?"

Wendy prepared herself to act out their favorite part of the story—the battle between Hook and Pan. But before she could do this, the door to the nursery banged open, and George Darling rushed in like a tornado.

The towel was dangling round his neck; his shirt was rumpled and there may have been a spot of ink on the cuffs. "What the devil is going on in here?"

The children stood frozen, a feeling I'm sure you are familiar with. Upon the entry of the adult, you completely lose control of your tongue and your feet and you stand waiting for the gavel to drop in judgement against you.

"Have you no respect?" cried Mr. Darling. "Didn't I order quiet in this house, for today only? How can I be expected to work when all that can be heard is the din from up the stair!"

"We're sorry, Father," John mumbled hoarsely.

"We were only listening to the story," Michael added. "Wendy tells the best stories, doesn't she, John?"

"Stories?" Mr. Darling looked at Wendy as if she had been caught committing a most audacious crime.

Wendy, not seeing the harm in such an activity, but still very remorseful for interrupting her father's tallying all the same, answered bravely, "Yes—about Peter Pan."

Slowly George Darling's face began turning red.

"Only to entertain them," Wendy went on, turning to smile pityingly at her brothers, who dared not smile back though they wanted to. "I was telling them of the time Peter rescued the princess of the Kaw tribe. You see it is one of the most—"

"Silence!" cried Mr. Darling, and Wendy drew back, surprised. "Not another word about that scoundrel!"

That scoundrel? Wendy felt the heat in her own face, but this time it was because she was angry. The only time there could be any resemblance between George and his daughter was when they were angry. What had Peter done that could make Mr. Darling behave so wretchedly against him?

"That name has taken over this household," Mr. Darling thundered. "Ten and twenty times a day I hear it! It is time for us all to stop living a fantasy!"

Wendy felt the indignation ripple through her, the way it was rippling through John and Michael in the beds. "A fantasy?" she echoed, wounded.

"That's right." Father was looking down at her in the most confusing manner—he was trying to look stern, and yet the doubt left traces there, and when she met his eyes that self-righteous anger purged all the rest away.

"It happened, Father," John said stiffly, after a cough. "All of it."

Michael nodded. "Neverland is real."

"Nonsense!" George cried. "A dream—I don't know—a hallucination—"

Wendy shook her head hard, brown curls bobbing against her cheeks and her shoulders. "But you _saw_ him, Father. He spoke to you, don't you remember? He was there—just there, outside the window." She pointed toward the open window, where snow had begun to fall even harder.

Then Mr. Darling did something that was very cruel. He did not know all it meant to his daughter, but he did know that it would make his point very clear once the action had been carried out.

He went to the window and pulled it shut. He locked it and close the drapes.

It did indeed make his point. Wendy felt hot tears fill her eyes—oh, how many times had she cried since the fateful night when he had flown off without her? And when would it all dry out?

Turning to his children, Mr. Darling said in a dangerously quiet voice, "I don't know what happened that night. But know this—it shall not ever happen again. I forbid you to speak his name any more! We shall have a little sense in this house."

Wendy lifted her chin, and whirling so that her hair flew about her face, she stormed to the underside of John's bed and yanked out his rusty pirate's sword. She went back to her father, the tears still sitting prettily in her eyes.

"Is _this_ fantasy?" Wendy cried, dropping it at his feet.

"Now, see here, young lady—"

"Or _this_?" She shook Michael's Kaw feather in his face and let it flutter to the ground.

George stared down at the objects, and he felt a tremor in his heart, but the prideful man would not back down. It was not a matter of argument now; it was a matter of respect. And his daughter was not giving him the amount she should have been.

"It was all _real_ and I don't _want_ to go on with my days pretending it _wasn't_!" Wendy's hands were in rebellious little fists at her sides, and she looked at him with such distaste he felt he should dissolve in the heat of it. "Peter exists, and he saved my life, and I shan't let you talk ill of him!"

Mr. Darling let her finish, but he was not without outrage himself. "Hold your tongue, Wendy! No respectable young lady goes about so foolishly. Making up stories—pretending you can fly! I refuse to allow you to behave this way over that make-believe boy for one more—"

"He isn't—"

"Silence!" rapped out Mr. Darling. "I won't hear another word on the subject, do you understand? You are not a child any longer—I tell you, it is time for you to _grow up_!"

The tears at last left their perch and spilled down Wendy's cheeks. Poor girl, she had heard this command once before, and it was on the same night that the "make-believe boy" had come and whisked her away from the world of time and age. How she wished he would do so now.

This longing filled her, as did the despair of knowing you can never have what you need so desperately. She turned in her frustration to leave the room, still trying not to release any more tears.

"Wendy! Come back here at once!"

She could not or would not reply, not even to her brothers' cries, and rushed down the stairs, taking her light blue pelisse from the coat-hanger by the door. Mr. Darling might have gone after her, but if he had we shan't know it, for Wendy is already down the street by this time. The cold dried her face and pulled the flush of anger from it, and she felt all her stinging fury leak out of her. All that was left now was the sadness.

Peter? Make-believe? Of course he wasn't. She knew it better than anyone. And knowing that her father wanted so badly for her to forget, whatever forgetting might take from her, was more than she could bear. She simply had to escape that house, where rules and expectations governed her far more strictly than Nana ever could. She may not feel this way tomorrow, but for now, returning to the room with the locked window was not an option.

There was only one place she could think of to go at a time like this. Shivering though her coat kept the wind and snow from biting her, Wendy knocked hard on the polished door, and prepared to curtsy lest an adult answered her.

But to her relief, the girl who opened the door did not care one jot whether or not she curtsied.

"Wendy?" Maimie gasped. "Good heavens, you'll catch your death of cold!"

"I need to stay here," Wendy said through blue lips. "If you please. Just for tonight."

Of course Maimie ushered her inside, where she was all smiles and cheerful comments. She took her friend's coat and hung it to dry, and drew Wendy to the fire to sit and warm herself.

"I'm all right," Wendy mumbled. "Really I am. It wasn't so very long a walk."

"What on earth made you come here, dear Wendy?" Maimie's hands went to her mouth. "Are your brothers quite ill? Are they—are they—"

"No," Wendy told her, laughing at last, "I daresay they'll be fine come morning."

"Then what was it?"

Wendy's laugh disappeared, and Maimie's face became long, a mirror of hers. "Father and I—" Wendy nearly hiccupped, a habit of hers when crying. "We had a bit of a row. He says that Peter is not real. He says…" She looked into the flames. "That I must grow up."

Maimie did not make any sudden sound this time, but merely put her hand upon Wendy's. "Whatever nasty things happened, I am sure he meant none of it."

Wendy shook her head miserably. "It's all become so wretched, Maimie," she whispered. "Ever since we left the Neverland. Everything gets worse and worse and worse, and I hardly know where to turn."

"You mustn't lose hope, Wendy," Maimie told her firmly. "Your Peter will come back, and you will see Neverland again, and when you return I shall be here, waiting to hear of your adventures!"

Wendy smiled.

"Things cannot always be dark," Maimie went on. "Sooner or later, the sun must come out."


	9. Chapter 9: Leaving For London

"You want us to _stay_?"

Peter winced. Ever since this whole seed trouble had started, nearly every conversation he had was destined for disaster. Tootles was staring at him, mouth open in outrage, and the rest of the lads looked much the same.

"Look, I know it's not easy, but I need someone here." Peter looked round at all of them, wishing they didn't look so resigned, as if they had expected this. "The less of us in London, the better chance we'll have at setting things right in time."

" _And the less chance you have of drawing attention to yourselves,_ " Tink put in. Peter shot her a glance that informed her she was not being helpful.

Curly was sitting beside Aaya on one of the logs surrounding the fire. The sun was setting on Neverland, and the Kaw preferred to stoke the flames early, much like mothers from our world preparing supper. The red-nosed Lost Boy was watching the orange-white glow ripple and lick upward, and when Peter allowed them another moment to speak, his eyes came up and stabbed their leader.

"So you're just leaving us here?" he spat. "Flying off again and letting the rest of us sit and rot waiting for you?"

Peter glanced at Aaya, hoping she would calm Curly or reprimand him, but to his dismay she did neither. She seemed just as bitter as the lads.

"No," Peter said, ready for the protest. He knew Curly better than the other boy would have liked to admit, and he had suspected this reaction above all others. "It's—"

"You think you can do everything by yourself, don't you, Peter?" Curly scoffed. "Didn't I tell you? We stick together. You need us. But you don't want our help. You're gonna have us sat here in Neverland, twiddlin' our thumbs, while you fly off and save the day like always."

"You're wrong," Peter murmured. "And you're right. I _do_ need you, lads. That's why you've all gotta stay behind."

They gave him disbelieving stares. Aaya was watching him, face like a rock.

"Have you forgotten Bludgeon?" Peter paced around the fire, looking at each of his friends in turn. Hook used to tell him that the quickest way to gain an audience's attention was by making eye contact. He never expected his pupil would surpass his skill in that lesson. "Think, Curly. Tootles. If he's given even a moment's peace, the whole island's in danger. He'll gut everything from here to the other end of the sea. You've seen how he works—I need you lot to make sure he can't do anymore damage."

"But Peter," Twins interjected in a bit of a frightened manner, "what've we got against him? He's—he's a sorcerer or something, remember?"

"He's got guns," Slightly added. "And weird sandy stuff."

"How're we supposed to know how to fight him?" Nibs cut in, with his old doubtful glare. "We're just kids."

Peter smiled at him. "Exactly. You're _just kids_. He won't think you're any sort of threat. He'll never see you coming. He didn't last time. Adults don't rule Neverland, we do, boys, it's our world! And that's the best part—they never learn."

Still no answer. Tootles kept his gaze fixed on Peter, but he didn't look any less dejected. The truth was, they all felt like deadweight that their leader couldn't bother carrying with him. They had so many adventures together, every day—how could he not share the most important one yet?

Peter took a quick breath before finishing quietly, "I can't get the seed _and_ take care of Bludgeon. It's all gotta happen in one night. Curly's right, I can't do it alone."

There was a moment of silence. Nothing except the song of Tinkerbell's wings and the crackling of the fire.

"I need your help, lads." Peter lifted a hand halfheartedly. "All who's agreed, raise your right hand."

Aaya lifted hers first, to the surprise of everyone around her. Curly gave her such a look for it; it was a wonder she didn't move from the heat of his stare rather than the flames'. But she didn't lower her hand.

Twins joined next, then Tootles, then Slightly and Nibs. Curly's arm remained in his lap, and he was watching Peter with hooded eyes.

" _Peter isn't babying you, Curly,_ " said Tink suddenly. She intertwined Curly's mind with hers for a moment and spoke so that only he could hear her. " _He isn't preoccupying you. This is a task for the brave-hearted, and he wouldn't present it to you if it weren't important._ "

Without acknowledging the tree-spirit verbally (or mentally), Curly slowly raised his hand with the others. Peter positively beamed at him, and it was the same _we're-all-right_ smile he'd shot the lad when they were cornered by a few bullies in the streets of London together. Curly awkwardly attempted to smile back, though it hurt his pride to give in. Of course it made sense—Bludgeon was a very real danger to Neverland, and without Peter there to take charge and dispose of the man with his extraordinary abilities, it was up to the crew of vagabonds to save the island. Peter trusted them to handle this while he was gone handling something of equal worth. But Curly couldn't help feeling a surviving twinge of resentment. He decided to bury it with the all-business manner Peter so often used. They had a job to do.

"Right," Peter said. There wasn't much else to say; boys of their age don't often go through the process of _thank-yous_ and grand displays of appreciation toward one another. He glanced at the darkening sky. "It's getting late. The star oughta be ready soon."

" _It will be at its full strength any moment now,_ " agreed Tinkerbell. " _When do we leave, Peter?_ "

Peter licked his lips. This was the hardest part. Not only for himself emotionally, but it might also lose him valuable time, as this would surely bring the most resistance out of any of his companions. "Tink…I'm sorry, but—but you can't come with me this time."

Her song faltered. " _What?_ "

"You're the only tree-spirit we've got on our side," Peter explained. "They're gonna need you if the colony tries to start anything with the Indians."

" _I can't imagine they'd get much done in one night!_ " Tink squawked angrily.

"I did." Peter looked up at her defiantly.

To this Tinkerbell had to answer. She did so wish he would stop bringing up that night. In her own mind she blamed him for nothing that had happened involving her people; it was all to do with the pirates. But she could never have convinced him she was right about this. And she could hardly argue when he used it against her.

But she might as well try.

" _Don't be foolish_ ," she said, a little more calmly. " _Of course I'm coming with you. I will know things about the seed and its tree that you can't possibly understand._ You _need me, Peter._ "

"More than we do?" Aaya countered, interrupting. Tink turned to her in midair. Aaya's brown eyes held the reflection of the flames, and she glowered at the tree-spirit, disappointed in Tink's selfishness. "The tree-spirit colony will destroy our people. The peace between our kind will not last without Peter's proof. And without you, if a war _does_ start, we will be without information that could have saved us."

By now all were focused on Tinkerbell. Usually she enjoyed that sort of thing, but now it made her boil with frustration. She could see the logic in what the younglings said. They were her dear friends; how could she let them down? But Peter…Peter was so much more to her, and the thought of letting him journey to that horrid other place—what with that _girl_ living there besides—without her guidance? It absolutely sickened her.

She wheeled around again to continue her row with Peter, but one glance into those large, hypnotic dark eyes, full of youth and determination, and her protests died on her tongue. He wanted her to stay. She had to stay. For him—not for the crew (though she did care for them), and certainly not for the colony.

It ripped her in two, a very human sort of feeling, but she managed to send out the mindscape wavelength, " _Very well,_ " before shooting to Nibs' shoulder, trying not to look directly at the boy who was making her ache so. What if he did not return?

"The star," Aaya exclaimed, pointing. "It's so bright!"

Peter turned on his heel to gawk at the second star to the right, his gateway to London. It was indeed nearly brighter than the moon one star over, pulsing with light and energy. He hadn't seen it look like that since—well, since Wendy. Innocence pushed at the corners of his mind, clogging his heart, tugging to fill him with bittersweet memories and softness, but with much practice he was able to easily push it away. These days he let it race through him unbound, whenever it felt the urge, but now his world was in danger. And hers. And the confusion the innocence could bring was not welcome this time.

" _You—you must hurry, Peter_ ," Tink began, in a strangled sort of voice. " _You only have one night._ "

Nibs turned his head ever so lightly toward the tree-spirit, whispering confidentially, gently, "You crying, Tink?"

" _My kind knows no such thing, Nibs._ "

"He'll be back. Don't worry."

" _Worrying is for humans._ " Tinkerbell fluttered off of his shoulder. " _Don't be silly._ "

"This is it, then," Peter breathed. "I'll come home. I'll bring the seed, stop the war. You just keep an eye on Bludgeon, all right?"

The Lost Boys, overwhelmed with the reality of the situation, quickly began calling goodbyes as Peter lifted into the air.

"Go on, Peter!"

"You can do it!"

"Bring me back some chocolates, will you?"

"We won't let you down!"

"We've got it sorted round here!"

"Don't take your sweet time, all right?"

" _Be careful!_ _You_ must _return!_ "

"See you tomorrow!"

With his mates cheering him on, Peter propelled himself, alone, toward the second star to the right. He'd promised to make good. And he intended to keep that promise.

* * *

 **(Author: Very short, I know. Writer's block. Next chapter up soon.)**


	10. Chapter 10: Maimie's Stand

When Maimie was but five years old, she had been playing in Kensington Gardens, near the Round Pond, and a horror of an older boy named Eustace Riggs had approached her and demanded custody of her toy boat. It was a splendid little boat, with polished wood and white muslin sails. It was a Christmas present, and it had finally become warm enough to take it out and let it drift gaily upon an imaginary sea.

Maimie had refused, of course, to surrender her ship to Eustace, so he knocked her down and took it anyway. He was too fast for her to catch, and when she realized it was a waste to go on chasing him she went to sit behind a bench and cry.

Tony had found her there; when she did not leap up to play with him he was vexed, and wanted to know what made her so irritatingly upset. Upon hearing what Eustace had done, Tony stood briskly, with his little chest out, and went to confront the bigger lad. There was a short, stiff exchange of words between the two, and as Maimie watched from her hiding place behind the bench, Tony struck the boat out of Eustace's hands. Before Riggs could retaliate, Tony had given him a great shove that sent him right into the water!

"That's _my_ sister," Maimie had heard him say coldly. "Leave her be. Go away and find your own ship!"

He had stuck his tongue out in a gloriously stern manner and marched back to Maimie with the little boat in both hands. In the younger's eyes he was shrouded in a golden halo of perfect heroism, but you may be sure he got a good scolding and whipping from Ayah.

Since that day Maimie would declare adamantly that Tony was the bravest boy in all of London, perhaps even in all the world. But tonight her faith in him would waver.

Wendy had not brought any sort of nightclothes for herself when she rushed out; her only thought had been to put a formidable distance between herself and the closed window of the nursery. So Maimie offered Wendy the best of her nightgowns—satin white, much nicer than anything Wendy owned, with the collar frilling as little stars. It even had a light blue sash one could tie around the waist, and this complimented her figure just so. It came down a few inches above her ankles; Maimie was actually a bit taller than her friend. But of course there were not any complaints. It was quite the most comfortable thing Wendy had ever worn.

"Oh, yes, you look simply lovely," Maimie observed as Wendy emerged from the next room in the nightgown. "I believe it suits you far better than I. Do you like it? Is it too cold? I do have others, you know."

"It's wonderful, dear Maimie," Wendy mumbled. "Thank you very much."

Maimie studied her companion's expression. Poor Wendy's face was still so long it might have touched the carpet. She hadn't stopped brooding over her quarrel with her father, and what he had said about Neverland and…other things. Fortunately, Maimie knew just the sort of thing that could cheer her up.

Being as childish as they could without, of course, disturbing the neighbors.

"Do you know the best thing about that gown?" Maimie asked, taking Wendy's hands in hers. Wendy shook her head. Smiling grandly, Maimie began running in a circle, taking the other girl with her. "It _twirls_ beautifully!"

It did indeed, and the perfect swish of the dress against her legs, accompanied by Maimie's giggles, caused Wendy to break into a very pretty grin. Soon the two friends were dancing about Maimie's bedroom, and if you had looked out the window you would have seen that their dance was not unlike that of the falling snowflakes, who peeped into the room one by one to see the proper steps, and then attempted to repeat them as they spun to the ground.

Maimie bounced onto her bed, rumpling the nicely made coverlet, and upsetting the pillows. Her near-black hair splashed over the other side, and her belly heaved with more giggles. Wendy, always a bit more poised than many girls by nature, did not flop, but she did eventually descend to the floor beside the fireplace with a last breath of glee, hand to her chest to keep from gasping for air. It is an exquisite feeling to have laughed so hard, with so much joy in your heart that it steals the energy from the rest of you.

"I fear I shan't ever find another friend such as you, Wendy," Maimie said at last, looking happily up at the ceiling. "All the other girls at school and things are such bores."

"That isn't a very nice thing to say," Wendy responded graciously, but she was smiling still.

"And yet," Maimie went on, "I am glad to know _you_ , among all of them."

Wendy knew Maimie was still trying to lift her spirits, and that she also meant every word. She was undyingly grateful, though her spirits had only lifted a few feet, and found that she felt precisely the same way. There is nothing quite as bright as having a best friend.

At that moment, Tony stuck his head in. All evening, he had been trying to think of a way to impress Wendy; she was in a vulnerable state and he meant to use it to his advantage. This did not mean that he was unsympathetic toward her. The boy could actually be of average kindness and didn't mean nearly as much harm as he ended up distributing. He felt half as badly for Wendy as his sister did and, in his own mind, the best way to remedy it was in himself. This Peter nonsense she'd invented—one could hardly compete with an imaginary love, but Tony had made up his mind that if anyone could do it, it was he. Thoughtless lad, pride will take much from you tonight.

"Tony!" Maimie rushed to the door and pulled him into the room, bouncing in delight as she gestured to her friend. "Look at Wendy! Isn't she simply ripping in that old frock?"

Tony positively gawked at Wendy, thunderstruck. Of course she was rather sweet, standing in the pre-owned nightgown, and he was not any stronger in the stomach than other young boys when it came to a pretty girl. Many children make their bedtime garments a treat to the eye, especially the kind with feet built in, but Wendy could have appeared at parties in her nighty and still young gentlemen would solemnly beg for a dance.

All he could muster was a slow nod.

Wendy gave him a polite smile of thanks, and wished briefly that Maimie had not admitted him into the chamber. But she wasn't the sort of girl to linger on sour feelings of dislike for someone else; she'd been taught at the simplest of ages to instead focus on what she did like about the person. Now however, guiltily, she drew up a very short list.

"I do wish you hadn't come so late," Maimie pouted to the Darling child. "We might have all gone to Kensington Gardens."

"It _is_ loveliest when it snows," Wendy confessed.

In a moment, Tony knew precisely the deed that must be done to gain his maiden's attentions. So certain of himself was he that he did not hesitate to set his plan in motion that very second. "I say," he said eagerly, "why shouldn't we go anyway?"

Maimie turned to him in a kind of awe. "To the Gardens, Tony? Now?"

"After Lock-Out Time?" Wendy glanced between the siblings disapprovingly.

"I'm not afraid," cried Tony, nose very high in the air by this time.

Maimie's hands flew to her mouth. "Is tonight the night? Is it?" She had been asking for some time now, and always Tony would give a slight shake of his head so that any grown-ups nearby could not detect them, but this time there were no grown-ups, and no shake of the head.

"'Course tonight is the night," Tony declared, as if he had been planning it weeks in advance. "What better chance can I have? Get your coats, girls, we're off!"

* * *

It was much easier than you would expect, sneaking out of the Mannering house that night. Ayah, convinced her charges and their friend were already in bed, snored quite contentedly in front of the fire in the drawing room, and both Mr. and Mrs. Mannering were out at the very same party Wendy's mother was attending. Only the splendid striped cat saw them leave, and as they went it gave a wink and a yawn, and disappeared underneath the sofa. Nana would have been appalled.

There they go, down the street and toward the big metal gates, Wendy in her blue pelisse and Maimie in her purple one, Tony in his cap strutting importantly at the front. Not a soul between the three of them could resist a jaunt in the snow and moonlight, but though Wendy's imagination praised her name, the little mother in her blanched at the foolishness of the adventure. Bundled as they were, it was undoubtedly a suicide sort of scheme, spending the night in frozen London, where nearly all the grown-ups to worry for them were asleep or unaware of their flight.

The snowflakes tickled Wendy's eyelashes bashfully and kissed Maimie's cheeks fondly, but they broke harshly against the top of Tony's dear hat, determined to soak it so that his hair stuck down against his head in a silly manner.

At last they reached the gate. Wendy gazed through the bars at the Kensington Gardens, so foreign to her without the daylight showing it off like a proudly lifted curtain. Coated white with the snow, you couldn't see the path or even an inch of grass.

"This is so very _exciting_!" Maimie whispered to them. "How brave you are, Tony, to remain the whole night through!" She peered at his face, suddenly confused. "Tony? Aren't you excited?"

"You look ill," Wendy observed.

Through chattering teeth, Tony retorted, "I'm all right." He tilted his head back to see the top of the gates, the snowflakes trying very hard to get into his eyes. "Well," he said, though it sounded forced, "enough standing about like this—we'd better start climbing!"

It took them quite a few tries, as the gates were so slippery and tall, and their fingers rendered nigh useless in their mittens, but they managed to land on the other side with only a few bruises each (Maimie had fallen several times on her rump).

"I feel we might have dressed a bit more appropriately," Wendy murmured, brushing snow from her hood. "Your face is so blue, Maimie!"

"It won't be for long," Maimie said, with a worshipful look at her brother. "But O, Tony, you shall be here for _hours_! How cold you might become!"  
Tony seemed more and more agitated with this talk as they walked, though Maimie did not see yet see why. The truth was, as silent and peaceful the Gardens really were in winter, all Tony could think was how dark it seemed, and how many shadows there were, and was that the moan of a phantom out to the east? He began to quake, but when Wendy asked he said it was because of the wind biting at them. Honestly, there was hardly a breeze.

As they went, Wendy couldn't help feeling something sit unbalanced within her. Something different about the air. It was tingling, almost familiarly, in her mind and her heart. Something was not ordinary in the Gardens that night, and she didn't know why she had not noticed it before. It was strong—almost like…

But no, she was only dreaming it. She dreamed a little too often nowadays.

Maimie kept giving little gasps of appreciation at the look of the park during this time, because nothing is closer to magic in our world than snowfall. Wendy, too, had to put her hands together more than once at the beauty of it all, which no one ever saw come Lock-Out Time, and now here they were seeing it. She was not afraid; she had seen ever so many more horrid and dangerous things than a forbidden acreage at midnight. She was enchanted, and Maimie was near to joining her.

Tony saw nothing that they saw. It was all quite terrible to him, and the more he gazed the more he wanted to shut his eyes. Finally, coming to the Round Pond (which had frozen over in the most perfect glass imitation) he stopped and turned to the girls.

"Right," he said awkwardly. "I suppose that's far enough."

"Yes," Maimie said, gazing at him with the same eyes that had watched him bring her ship back from Eustace Riggs all those years ago. "Wendy and I will go back home, and we'll cover for you, we'll say—oh, what will we tell them, Wendy?"

Wendy looked Tony up and down, reluctant to replace the visions of the white Gardens with the pompous boy. She wanted very much to tell them to call the whole thing off, to warn Tony that it was a very silly thing he was doing, but decided this could all be a great lesson to him come morning, and instead settled for, "We shall think of something on the way, I should think."

Maimie slipped her hand into Tony's, and hers was hot, but his was cold. He wore no gloves, and still he shook so that Maimie's arm, near to his, shook with him. Maimie did a very kind thing; she took off her scarf and gave it to him.

"In case you should feel too cold," Maimie said sweetly, giving her brother's hand a squeeze. "Do tell me all about your adventures tomorrow, dear Tony."

Tony only nodded; his heart was in his mouth, and he could have sworn he heard his ribs clattering against one another in his nervousness. Wendy gave him a small wave and an encouraging smile that made only a trickle of heat pass through his chilled body, and as they turned to leave him he suddenly exclaimed, "I'll walk you out, shall I?"

So he took them as far as the gate, and as Wendy went first over to the other side, Maimie gave her hero one last squeeze, hoping to give some of her warmth to him, thinking proudly that it might last him longer than ordinary hugs did. After all, such bravery must be rewarded thus, it was only right to her.

"I'll have the fire roaring for you at breakfast," Maimie promised him. "And oh, mother will be quite dazzled—imagine it, Tony! The door, wide open for you, just you, and she shall probably have hot chocolate as well. She will be so impressed, Tony!"

Again, Tony only nodded. By now he expected if he spoke, his heart would come tumbling out of his mouth and land in the ice. What on earth had he been thinking?

Maimie climbed over the gate, and it seemed ages and ages before she took her eyes off him, so pleased with him she had become. She felt she might burst. _Her_ brother— _alone_ in Kensington Gardens all night—what other boy would _dare_ to attempt such a feat?

She was a little disappointed by Wendy's obvious indifference to this scene, and as they took the first few steps away from the gates she said brazenly, "Isn't he marvelous, Wendy? Did you ever see such a thing?"

Wendy knew her friend was merely forgetting just the sort of things she _had_ seen, and graciously failed to respond. When Maimie realized her mistake, she blushed and tried hastily to amend it.

"I mean, for an _ordinary_ boy," Maimie backtracked. "Not ordinary in an ugly way, you know—just—not a Neverland boy. Isn't he brave for _this_ world, Wendy? You know he really thinks a lot of you."

Wendy was about to answer, mulling over the nicest answer she could mold, but as she glanced back to do so she stopped, mouth open.

Maimie turned fully round to see what she was staring at. Slowly, her own mouth dropped open, and her lip trembled. Could that be—no, surely not. Could it?

It _was_. Horror engulfed her as she saw, further down the street and at another gate, the lithe figure of her brother dropping onto the sidewalk and rushing stealthily back across the road toward their building.

Maimie's eyes stung. Tony, the bold one, had deserted his quest as soon as she had turned her back. He was, in that moment, plainly revealed to her, not as the adequate and exalted older brother but as the lowered character he had always been. For the first time Maimie looked down upon him instead of up at him, and she wore a scowl instead of a beam.

"Maimie?" Wendy's voice was gentle.

In a rush of emotion, in very disdain for all puling cowards and her lying relation, Maimie turned on her heel and scaled the gates.

"Maimie! No, Maimie, come back!" Wendy cried, but she slipped on a sheet of ice as she ran in her friend's stead and twisted her ankle.

Scrambling to her feet, the girl reached the entrance and curled her hands around the bars, calling Maimie's name. She was too late. Maimie had been so devastated, so absolutely enraged at her brother's true form, that she ran to the bench beside the Round Pond and sat down behind it, sobbing into her mittens. With each tear, all Tony's comments and dodgy behavior became clear in her memories, shown for what they really were, for what he was, and this made her anger hotter. She would stay here, in his stead, all night. This she did for pure defiance of everything nasty or false he'd ever done that she had, in the past, dismissed with her faith in him.

Wendy, still on the sidewalk with her throbbing ankle, stared into the Gardens, trying to catch sight of Maimie, but she could no longer see her. Really she couldn't see very far into the park at all; the snow was now falling so thickly that she could hardly see the gate in front of her, much less her lost companion.

She tried to climb inside again, but her wound rebelled so adamantly that she knew she could not succeed on her own. She could walk, but with a dreadful limp. If you have ever twisted your ankle before, you know that for the first hour and a half it is absolutely excruciating. And if you have ever fallen down in the cold, you know that _everything_ is absolutely excruciating, and that a twisted ankle is only one of many aches.

So unbalanced she made her way back to the front steps of the Mannerings' home, and reached the door just before Tony did. When she saw him approach, her face became very red, and again that solitary resemblance to George Darling was exposed.

"Stop!" Wendy threw her arms out to bar the door.

Tony, stunned to find her there, stood in complete humiliation for a moment, and his cheeks also became red, but not in righteous anger. "I—I—"

"You," said Wendy coldly, "are a wretched, cowardly custard, Tony Mannering."

Tony's mouth became similar to that of a hungry goldfish. No one had ever heard Wendy Darling say the words _cowardly custard_ before. Not to anyone.

"You might have at least waited half an hour for everyone to fall asleep," Wendy went on sneeringly, "before you returned."

Tony recovered his wits, if only to save his own skin: "Ssh! They'll hear you!"

"Oh no they won't!" Wendy got down off of the step and gripped him tightly by the sleeve, pulling him with her back out into the snow. "Because we shan't stay here, at this house, not for a moment, not until we get your sister back safe and sound, thank you!"

Tony had been resisting her tugging until then. He paused, going a few paces with her, asking cautiously, "Maimie? Where is she?"

"She's gone to take your place," she told him curtly, not bothering to look back.

"She's what?" Tony let out a harsh laugh. "Her? Out in this all night?"

"She has already been there longer than you were, I think," Wendy told him scathingly.

The red became deeper in his face as she said this. He began to take her seriously at last. They came to the gate, and Tony at last noticed something different.

"What's wrong with your foot?" he asked, curling his lip. Wendy could be seen in a less glowing sort of way when she did not walk dignified as usual.

"It doesn't matter," Wendy huffed. "I cannot possibly get inside with it in this way; you've got to help me. You haven't injured yourself, so perhaps you can make it to the other side—if you can _brave_ it—and—"

"Go back in?" Tony was looking paler now. "Are you mad? Wendy, haven't you heard the stories? Phantoms and stuff—we can't last all night out here!"

Wendy gave him such a cutting look it is a wonder he did not flutter in two paper pieces to the ground. "Poppycock," she said primly. "I am not one farthing frightened of phantoms, and nor should you be if your sister is in trouble."

Tony drew himself up. "It's stupid, that's all, you see—I-I'm not _afraid_ , it's just stupid is all, that's why I left—I'm brave enough—it's just—"

"Brave?" Wendy let go of the gate's bars and went right up to him, ignoring the pain in her ankle. Her blue eyes had never looked so like a stormcloud. "I have known _five_ whole boys twenty thousand times braver than you. Seven, actually, if you don't mind my including John and Michael! And Michael is only seven! You cannot possibly know what brave is, Tony, and neither do you know what love is, if you are not willing to risk your own safety for Maimie's. If there _are_ phantoms in this park at night, you should be quite happy to meet them, because I can assure you that what they shall do to you will be considered good etiquette compared with what _I_ shall do to you if you do not help me over this gate _at once_!"

Tony helped her over the gate.

"Let's hurry," Tony mumbled, steadying her rather awkwardly as she landed, wincing. "She can't have gone far." When Wendy did not answer, he added shakily, "Nothing can harm us, really, can it? I mean we shan't be here long."

And again Wendy felt that tingle in her heart, a stirring that said something strange was in the air, something out of place.

"No," she said, "Nothing." But she did not mean it.


	11. Chapter 11: Peter Lands

As soon as he shot through the second star to the right, Peter began wishing he had not gone alone. He wished this for two reasons: the first was because he had become so accustomed to his peculiar Neverland family and hated the silence in their absence, and the second was because he knew he could be very foolish when left by himself.

One of the least bothersome things about living in the Neverland, and never growing up, is that you do not develop the way other young people do as they age. I don't mean physically, I mean you don't develop as a person. With Pan it was different. With him, it was _always_ different.

Peter had become so very aware of his blunders last September—when he and the lads and Hook had first come to that strange world—that he had changed quite utterly in his opinion of himself. Before, he had been confident in his own actions and reasoning, knowing he was the best set-up boy on the streets. He had not been unlike Tony Mannering, you see, in a certain way, because he believed so wholly in himself that he could not see the obvious errors he was making until someone else had paid for it.

He knew that without a companion, without a different set of eyes with which to see the things around them, he could again lose himself and make even worse mistakes than before. Especially with the magically enhanced innocence that had become part of him. Far from the day he'd first breathed Neverland's charged air, instead of thinking he was something dominant, he knew now that he was only as much as his friends helped him to be.

So, as the light from the star dazzled him and its eerie, lovely tune lingered in his mind and set the magic in his blood ablaze, Peter couldn't help feeling a quiver of doubt. How _could_ he manage it all on his own?

But he wasn't one to dwell on doubts when there was a job to be done. He was here now, he had to carry on, dry up and do your best, Peter.

When next he opened his eyes, he was looking down upon nighttime London, and snowflakes caught in his hair and clung to the back of his coat, flocking to him in delight—he was so like them, after all—and, exhaling, he could see his breath linger in front of him as a thin cloud. 

The sight of the white-capped houses and churches and treetops didn't feel even a speck like home to Peter now. He missed the sand and winds of Neverland already, and the tree-spirit dust inside of him missed it too, so that with every beat of his heart he knew he did not belong here.

Any other night, he might have been cautious, checking how long he could last before growing weak. Without the Neverland's trees to sustain his inhuman life force, he should be feeling quite nauseous even seconds in, but he could tell almost instantly that things had changed, that England's atmosphere had been tainted. He could sense the presence of the new tree—it was that strong, so near to spring's first light—and relief coursed through him. _It'll be easy, finding it, when I can feel it like this._

But even with this encouraging revelation, an entirely different desire knocked at his heart. So few miles east, just an eager flight off, round a corner and behind a nice, large silver maple, was a little house with two stories. He could picture the window hungrily, the curtains blowing out at him, light pooling from the warm nursery, and inside…

 _Stop it._ Peter closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head as if trying to expel water from his ears. _Now's not the time. Don't be stupid. Find the park._ There, see, he didn't even need Tink! With a wry little smile at her imagined reaction to this, Peter swooped a little lower, letting the winter howls carry him toward the source of the tugging sensation in his blood.

In many stories, the hero's journey to his destination is long and tedious, and when you get to it you must trudge further still with him to what he seeks there, but it wasn't like that with Peter's search for the tree. To his surprise (and great temptation) the Kensington Gardens were very near to the house he so longed to visit. Just a street away, in fact, and this was almost more than he—or his innocence—could bear. Twice he found himself veering toward the homes instead of the gates, and twice he had to turn, mentally kicking himself, back in the direction of the park.

He alighted just beside the Longwater, and when his bare feet crunched into the snow, they were not cold or wet at all. He was not entirely human anymore; tree-spirits are indifferent to the chill of snow. Peter was not exactly indifferent, as he wasn't entirely tree-spirit either, but his feet and hands—and I think most of both ears—were not bothered, which you'll find (if it ever happens to you) is a really useful thing when one is on a mission and is not properly dressed for a winter trek.

About twelve steps in, he realized he hadn't the slightest clue where to begin. Yes, he could still sense the tree, but by now it was not in any particular direction the feeling pulled him in—it was simply all around him, the aura filling him with energy the way the vegetation in Neverland did. It was like following the sound of a wailing child until you reach a certain spot, whereupon several children begin wailing with the first, all at once, and you no longer know who uttered the first cry.

 _Something's up,_ Peter suddenly understood, slowing a bit. _It's not the same here. It's different._ He really wanted someone to talk to, to work things out with. (You may try, reader, but I'm afraid he won't hear you.)

What he meant by _it's different_ was that the feeling we've mentioned, the one a Neverland tree exudes, had a very mixed twinge to it. Think of it this way: if Neverland's native trees could feel blue, this one felt violet. It certainly _wasn't_ the same. Peter's stomach and head churned at it, almost rejecting it, like a virus that had somehow infiltrated his system.

The elders had been right. A Neverland seed in Earth's soil was not a good combination. _Come on. How bad could it be?_ Peter scoffed to himself.

He was about to get an answer. So, unfortunately, was someone else.


	12. Chapter 12: Peter's New Guide

Maimie had shut her eyes tight and glued them with passionate tears. You might think she behaved rashly, but what would you have done? All her life up until that night, her older brother had been her source of confidence. Some of you might know what it is to have a hero, someone on whom you depend to make the world a little lighter once in a while. And when you are related to your hero, this feeling of dependence is increased tenfold; you not only rely on them, you trust them not to let you down, and tonight Tony had broken that spell between the two of them.

She shook her head as she cried, remembering with disgust how utterly _proud_ she had been of him all this time. When she was very small she often searched for a sign of some sort to wear that said she was his sister. If she was frightened, and Tony was not, then neither was she. If she was sad, Tony would look troubled by it (though she knew it now to have been annoyance) and she would stop being sad and smile for him. If she was angry, and Tony was whistling a gay little tune, not a care for anyone, then Maimie's anger would dissolve. He had been a source of hope to her ever since she had been old enough to say his name, he had been everything she would like to be someday, and now it was all gone, gone!

Maimie was seeing him in his truest clothes—all the arrogance, all the deceit, all the cowardice—in every picture of him she called to her mind. She sat with her back against that wretched fence and sobbed until she was all dried up.

Then she took a deep breath. It can often be very healing to have a good cry, even if you are crying over something silly. She was emptied now of the first wave of despair, but her heart still throbbed in her chest. She felt very foolish for putting her faith in someone who did not deserve it for so long. It was in this disdain for herself that she did not yet open her eyes.

The snowflakes fell a little harder, but still she did not look up. We must have mentioned this before, but there is absolutely nothing quieter than snowfall at night. And sometimes, when you are upset, silence is the nearest you can get to comfort. In silence you are always able to think clearly. Maimie did not know how long she sat, cozy in her pelisse, her eyes shut, breathing in the icy air. Everything was calm.

Then, without any kind of warning, a very wooden sort of voice said, "So that's all right."

Maimie jolted. Of course she had not expected a voice of any kind, wooden or no, to be there tonight. She looked up, and through the fur of her hood she could just make out the elm tree motionless in front of her. No one there but a tree. She must have imagined….

But it looked different. In the trunk, there was a strange series of marks, almost a carving. Then the voice came again, and she realized it was not a carving, but a _face_ , a real face, made of bark and opening its mouth—speaking, exactly the way a person would!

"You get very numb," said the elm tree, "standing on one leg so long."

Maimie did not know her own mouth had fallen open until a rather fat snowflake settled upon her tongue, and she stammered in a frightened whisper, "You…you can speak?"

The tree looked down at her with the black holes it had for eyes in its trunk (or it might have been at her; she couldn't tell when there were no pupils to speak of), and made an odd noise of surprise. I cannot describe it as no one has ever created a word for the kind of sounds trees will make when they talk, but I'll try: imagine an elmy sort of sound, a bit like a gasp, but more hollow.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the elm whispered back in horror. It moved—all of it—and the bottom of the trunk, at its roots, split in two, so that it sort of looked like it had legs. Then its whole top half bent toward her, and clumps of snow fell from its branches. "A human—in the Gardens—at _night_! Surely you know you do not belong here."

Maimie gaped at it, still terrified. Then she came to her senses, very slowly. Wendy had told her so many fanciful tales; how could she be frightened at something so like them? Wasn't this the sort of thing of which she'd envied her friend?

"Whoever heard of it!" the elm scoffed. "A little girl, bursting into our territory during the only hour we are allowed freedom from you creatures! Do you not know how little privacy we receive, shut up in this park?"

At last, Maimie found her voice. She got to her feet, a little trembly at first, but her temper was still very much intact, as she'd been through an ordeal recently. "Well," she blustered, "whoever heard of a tree up and talking like one of _us creatures_?"

The elm fell silent, and Maimie would have assumed it had all been in her head, except that the face had not disappeared and its roots were still out of the earth as a pair of legs. They watched each other for a long moment, the snow thick as ever around them, until the elm let out a low, leafy chuckle.

"You make a nice point, little girl," it said. "What do they call you?"

"Maimie Mannering." Maimie was not sure of the etiquette with elms, but she curtsied cautiously. "I'm sorry, I—I've come because—well, you see, I…" She was finding it very difficult to explain without starting at the beginning. The tree would certainly not understand the story she could give it, so she settled for, "It is a test of bravery, if you please, sir."

"A noble thing," the tree admitted. "You intend to remain here? As long as the moon is up?" Its branches rattled, like a wrinkling of a nose.

"I do," Maimie told him.

"Then take care," the elm warned, "that _they_ do not find you."

Maimie felt a shiver run up and down her spine. " _They_? Please—who do you mean?"

"They are like you," said the tree, in a voice that suggested he thought she'd already known. "A bit. They have great power here, and if they should mischief you for trespassing…"

It left the thought unfinished, and Maimie was glad it did. She hadn't at all thought there might actually be something dangerous in Kensington Gardens. Well, perhaps phantoms, and they fit the description at least a little. But you remember that Maimie was a different sort of girl at night, so the thought of phantoms did not really worry her. She was already pondering other things.

"I never knew you could speak," Maimie murmured politely. "Tell me—have you always been able to speak?"

The elm was quiet again for a moment, thinking. Then it grumbled out, "Not always. Something happened one night. I felt it in my roots. And then I could talk, and I could walk. That's all. This park has never been the same since." Again, its branches clattered together. "It is especially strong tonight. I feel more than I have felt since the first spring of my time. There is magic here, Maimie Mannering."

"Can…" Maimie could barely breathe for excitement. _There is magic here._ Magic—in Kensington Gardens. Of course, where else? "Can you all speak, Mister Elm?"

"No," the elm said, straightening again. "Only a—what do you call it?—a _hand_ ful. Something has brought it into us; your kind of ways, this jabbering and strolling you do. It is like water, it is connected to just a few of us. We cannot stray far from our birthplaces," it added, gesturing with one low branch to the hole it had ripped from the earth, "and when the sun rises we must always return there. But we who have it relish our new freedom."

Interesting. Maimie wished Wendy were here to hear this. How she would enjoy talking with an elm, as if they were having a spot of tea together! "Are there other changes?" Maimie asked. Then she checked herself. "I'm terribly sorry—I should think I'm being awfully nosy—"

If the elm could have snorted, it looked as if it would have. "Humans are a curious breed. Don't apologize for your nature. It is rather contemptible of you."

She could agree with that. "But are there?"

"Many," the elm responded, in a bored sort of way. "But the time it would take to relay—"

And suddenly it stopped, freezing, as if someone had turned it off with the pull of a chain. It flopped back into its hole; its roots digging into the ground again as if it were a child coming out of the water for that desperate gulp of air.

"They come!" the elm hissed, and the sound of it sent a chill through the girl. "Flee, Maimie Mannering—if they find you they will surely end you. They own the Gardens, and your kind is unwelcome as the sun sets! Run! Flee!"

Maimie was startled, and the urgency with which the tree spoke made her turn and run without curtsying goodbye. Her boots pounded through the untouched snow, but whoever it was must be following her footprints; she could hear a strange sound behind her, like the beat of a thousand wings. She looked side to side as she went, and just noticed, in a corner of her mind, the little dots of trees walking about in the distance, stretching their branches and mingling.

The sound became so loud she couldn't help herself. She had to know what was after her.

When she turned to see who it was, she nearly ran into another, far more lifeless tree.

Maimie stopped. Her little mouth once more a pretty O, she said, in a tone barely audible, scarcely daring to believe it, "Fairies!"

A swarm of them—too far to make out any real details—were shooting toward her like hornets on a rampage. Tree-spirits, the things Wendy had described! But these weren't the same as she'd heard. Their glow was not silver; it was mauve, and they were far slower than Wendy had made it sound. There was no music coming from their wings, and their flight pattern was a bit wobbly.

Stopping was a mistake, she quickly learned. These were not the fairies you heard about in bedtime stories. They zoomed forward, heading straight for her, and she did not have to look any closer to know they were angry. She could simply _feel_ it, as if they were making her feel it, just by getting near.

With a gasp, Maimie resumed running until everything around her was a blur. She was faster than you might have thought, but it was not enough. The faster she ran, the more panicked she became, and the closer the odd tree-spirits seemed.

Finally, she could run no more. They overtook her, darting at her and pinching her, grabbing at her coat and yanking her hair. You may imagine this and laugh, but I assure you it was not an amusing sight. It was like watching someone get attacked by poisonous spiders; every time they touched her she felt a burning sensation, and their glows were so bright it hurt her eyes.

In a moment of absolute desperation, Maimie finally dropped to the ground and screamed.

* * *

Peter was hopelessly lost. He hadn't been to Kensington Gardens in years, and anyway you could never see the whole of the Gardens in one day. He'd only come every once in a while to pickpocket, and that had been so long ago, and in the summer, not in winter when everything looked so different. He'd been walking for what felt like ages, when really it had only been around half an hour. The innocence in his heart prodded him and told him he was bored, so that he was not sufficiently alert.

He heard a creaking sound somewhere to his left, a little later than he normally would have, and pulled his dagger from his pocket, taking cover behind a snowdrift. What he found was so out of the ordinary, even for him, that he had to pause in appreciation of it.

A tree—a nice large oak—was walking about, on two root legs, just as if it were a human being, as if it did this all the time. Peter, heart pounding, ducked ever lower and watched it lumber off until he could no longer see it.

" _What…_?" he whispered to himself.

Of course he knew it must have been the Never tree's doing. He hadn't been to Kensington Gardens in years, but he was sure this wasn't normal. Still…even Neverland didn't have walking oaks. The tree-spirits back home had said things would be different, mixing magic where it didn't belong. But he hadn't expected this. It was almost creepy.

When he began moving again, he did so with his weapon still in hand. Walking trees. He didn't know what else he'd find, but he didn't want to be unarmed when he did.

The wind had stopped howling, but the snow was practically blinding now. Absolute quiet, apart from the _pit-pit-pit_ of the flakes landing on leaves. Peter began to wish something would make a real sound.

Then he heard the screaming.

* * *

Maimie had planted her face deep into the snow so that the little beasts couldn't reach it. But the dashing and stinging at the rest of her body, searing through her clothes, was nigh unbearable. She tucked her arms underneath her chest, curled her legs in, and lay in a ball on the ground, crying out as they burned her over and over.

"Stop it! Stop it!" shrieked the poor thing, in tears. "Let me be!" This was the most pain she had ever felt. She began to think it wouldn't end until the dreadful creatures had killed her. And she had thought fairies to be bewitching before!

Then, as if her current state of distress was not yet enough, a jolt of fear passed over her heart as something strong grabbed the back of her pelisse and pulled her upward and backward. Standing, she spluttered, snow still clinging to her face, her hair wet and sticking to her cheeks. When she had pushed these things from her vision, she turned to face whatever had joined in the assault, having discovered earlier that running for it only made for worse consequences. Best to confront the danger this time. After all, this was a quest for bravery, was it not? Heavens, hadn't she better start showing some backbone? The stinging was like a bad dream now; she felt sure she could…

Then, looking round, she decided things were simply too confusing by now to do anything except stand and stare.

The snow was falling so hard that if the tree-spirits had not been as bright as they were, they would not have been visible to her at all. But a larger figure most certainly was, and Maimie's head throbbed with bewilderment at this new addition to the evening's catastrophe.

A boy stood just two feet in front of her, his back to her, and at first glance she thought with a start that it must be Tony. But no, her brother had fair hair, not this dark bedhead. And Tony had been wearing a dull red, not brown and black. He definitely had not been barefooted, and somewhere in the back of her mind Maimie winced in sympathy at the bite the snow must be giving those feet. This lad was also a few inches taller than her former idol, she noticed with satisfaction. Lastly, she saw that he held a knife in his hand, and leaned away from him warily.

"Get back!" the boy shouted at the tree-spirits. "Leave her alone!"

Maimie thought that the creatures would attack him as they had her, but to her shock they all gathered in a cloud above the two children, hovering, every miniature eye fixed on the outsider.

"Who are you?" one cried.

Maimie wondered if they were speaking through thoughts, the way Wendy had taught her they did, but when she heard it, it sounded nothing like she'd imagined someone else's thoughts might. It sounded normal, as if spoken aloud. When another joined in, she saw its mouth move, and realized they didn't communicate through thoughts at all.

"You hold the sacred power! The power of the Source!" The tallest of the little things hovered a bit lower. "It's _inside_ him! Where do you come from, stranger?"

This revelation (which Maimie understood not one inch of) caused a great ruckus among the fairies, and while they chattered in an agitated sort of way, the boy's voice rang out in a grand authority, and they fell silent.

"It's none of your business," he snarled. "Pick on someone your own size next time."

"She is an intruder," two tree-spirits shouted at once.

"She must pay for her deeds!"

Before the boy could respond, Maimie's temper rose in her again, and she stormed forward, pushing past the lad.

"How _dare_ you!" she cried. "It isn't only _your_ Garden! I am here nearly every day and I never saw you before tonight. One could say it is _you_ who are the intruders upon _our_ park! I have as much right to be here as any of you lot do. Pinching me like that—what had I done to you? Where did you get your manners, you horrid little insects!"

She was mainly angry now because she had gotten snow inside her hood, and there is scarcely anything more irritating than taking care to be warm and dry, and then having a few pieces of ice ruin every bit of it. Maimie realized seconds later how silly she must have sounded to these ancient brutes, but she felt better for saying it anyway.

But the fairies, watching her as she spoke, did not make any sort of response to the outburst. In fact, to her indignancy, they addressed the boy standing behind her instead.

A rather small, plain looking tree-spirit floated nearer to them. Maimie could just make out a girlish figure in the little silhouette, and the falsetto voice confirmed its gender for her.

"Did the Source create you, too?" she demanded. "Are you the guardian of the humans lost in the Gardens after Lock-Out Time? Is that why you have the power?" She did not sound afraid, or even cross, the way the others did. She merely sounded curious.

The boy replied, in almost exactly the same curious tone, "No, I—I'm not from here. Where's this Source you keep talking about? I need—"

The others all began calling out angrily again. The tallest, calling out over their din, said haughtily, "If you are not of the Source, then it is, as you say, none of your business. We shall not harm the human as long as you are with her. We daren't oppose the sacred power. But if she is not gone by morning, she will be severely punished. We will not be so lenient with her the next time!"

"Lenient?" stammered Maimie in outrage, but they were already flying away.

"Wait!" the boy started after them, frantically, but the only one that paid him any mind was the girl fairy from before. She glanced back, once, but at a word from one of her own kind, she turned away again.

Then the entire flock of them sped up considerably, until even their glows had gone out of sight, and the boy could not have followed them in that split second. One moment they were there, and the next they weren't. Maimie wondered if they had been going that fast when they had been chasing her.

The lad seemed very vexed now indeed, and grabbed at his hair in frustration, growling, "Ah, brilliant!" in a way that told her nothing was brilliant at all.

He threw his knife down and sat on a nearby log, still messing his hair with his hands; until he had moved them down to drag at closed eyes.

But as he had turned to sit, Maimie had finally gotten a good look at his front, at all his features, though the snow had not let up yet. Melancholy eyebrows, sharp brown irises, silver streaks in his hair and skin, bits of vines curling around the ends of his trousers, patches in his coat, a mouth that could only be described as perfectly, wonderfully _cocky_ …

And then she wanted to dance and leap and possibly faint with the wonder of it all. Could it be…

Breathless, she whispered without daring to hope, " _Peter Pan_?"

His head came up, looking very startled, and she knew it was true.

Maimie let out a little shriek that made him jump. "It is you! It _is_ , oh, oh my goodness! _Peter_! What a night!"

And then she laughed for joy. She could not possibly be in any more danger, not for the rest of the night—Peter Pan had arrived!

Peter was very disturbed. "How d'you know who I am?"

She was very flustered. "Oh, yes, how silly of me, I apologize—please excuse me—" Maimie stopped jumping up and down, and her hood fell off of her head, letting her dark chocolate locks tumble out. "I'm not being very polite, am I, I just—upon my soul, can it really be you, here, now—but of course it is, tomorrow is spring, and…and…" She blinked. He was still staring at her. "Oh, terribly sorry, do forgive me. W-Wendy, you see. Wendy told me."

Peter's innocence gave a great lurch against the door of his heart; pounding to get out so adamantly that it even skipped a few beats. _Wendy told me._ Wendy _told me._

Now it was his turn to whisper, his frustration momentarily forgotten. "You…you know Wendy?"

"Why, she is only my very dearest friend!" Maimie positively beamed at him, delighted just to hear him say her name. She bounded forward and took hold of his hands. "She's been missing you ever so much, Mister Pan! She says you promised to come during spring, and here you are, and oh, she'll be—she'll be just— _thrilled_!"

Peter felt his senses going giddy with her words, the innocence having found a crack in his armor and leaking to all the places where he was most sensitive. Missing him terribly. Wendy had been missing him terribly? But she couldn't have been—he'd been pushing his longing down ever second they'd been apart; surely she must've done the same. Wasn't that the safest route?

"She'd begun thinking you wouldn't come," Maimie went on, letting go of his hands and clasping her own together. "She thought you'd forgotten her!" Her whole body wriggled at the sheer romance of his return.

But Peter of course was not feeling the same way. Wendy had begun to lose faith in him so soon. Well, certainly she had. _What'd you think, Peter, she'd wait for you forever? Stupid, you're the one who won't grow up, remember?_ As short a time as Wendy had to wait, only a month or so, it meant something that she hadn't trusted him to keep his word, that it had all fallen through for her so quickly.

Maimie must have noticed his expression. "But you're here now!" She paused. "Oh—Peter Pan—oh dear, you know she isn't here, don't you?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply, still very jumbled, but she didn't give him the chance, still nervously babbling, full of adrenaline.

"Or did you land simply to rescue me? Thank you very much, but you must be getting along! She's at my home, spending the night there—I shall take you to her! Oh, but I mustn't, I've got to stay here, but I can quite easily give you directions—"

At last, Peter remembered what _he_ was doing here. He stood up. "No, it's not that, I mean—I'm not here to see—I mean…" Well, this was going marvelously. Why had she mentioned Wendy? He couldn't get his bearings, trying miserably to rein the innocence back in. Usually it obeyed, but Maimie had riled it up, and now it was nearly useless to corral it.

The strange girl watched him, baffled.

Peter took a deep breath. "Look, thanks for your help, but I've got something I else I've gotta do first." He looked round. "You all right to find your way out from here?"

Maimie straightened up. "Heavens, I'm not leaving."

Peter's eyebrows knit. "You're not?"

"No, it's like I said, I've got to stay here tonight." Maimie flounced down on the log, not understanding how much of a hurry the legend was in. "You see, my brother Tony's been saying for quite some time he'd do it—stay here in the Gardens all night—and no one ever has—and it would've been really brave of him, you know, but…" She paused. "But at the last moment, he…" She flushed, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm here doing it for him, so I'm afraid I won't be going home until dawn."

Peter was following only a little of this, and said impatiently, "But it's dangerous."

Maimie raised her eyebrows. "Yes, but…but I'm not frightened. Not at all."

Peter raised his eyebrows back, a little teasingly. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "What was all that with the tree-spirits, then?"

Maimie blushed. "Just a setback, I should think." She stood up, brushing snow from her skirt. "I say, Peter, what is it you have to get done here?"

Peter wished she would stop asking so many questions. He only had so much time. If Tink had been with him, they would have left long ago—he felt almost as if his conscience had been left behind in Neverland.

So, as briefly as he could, he explained his mission. His innocence urged him to tell it nice and long, with all the details, and his saving the Never Bird and outsmarting Bludgeon, make everything sound grand and exciting, but Peter evaded this. He couldn't waste precious seconds storytelling, however much more fun it would have been. Maimie turned out to be a superb listener, with gasps and nods, just as if he were reading her a bedtime story.

"And I've only got tonight, so…" Peter picked up his dagger distractedly.

"Oh, wait, please!" Maimie hurried up to him, face aglow. "I'll come with you!"

Peter tried not to groan. "Thanks, but—I'd better go alone. You could get hurt."

"I told you, I'm not afraid of a few fairies," Maimie scoffed. "And the trees are actually very polite, I must say."

"Tree-spirits," Peter corrected her absent-mindedly. "It's my job, all right? I don't want to risk anyone else. You don't have to—"

"I can help," Maimie insisted. "I can help you find this tree. I know the Gardens better than…well, practically anyone, if you don't mind my boasting, Mister Pan."

"Just Peter," he told her. He sighed through his nose, just a bit. He _had_ needed someone to talk to. And a guide really would speed things along.

"The sooner we save the Neverland," Maimie added imploringly, "the sooner we can get you home to see Wendy!"

Peter turned toward her abruptly. "Don't—I mean yeah, that's fine." He blinked the snow from his eyes, thinking. He couldn't just leave her here anyway. So long as she didn't keep mentioning….

"All right. You can come."

Maimie gave a squeak of delight and bounced to his side. "I won't be any trouble, Peter, I promise. Where shall we start?"

Peter couldn't help smiling a bit at her enthusiasm. "Let's head East," he suggested. "It's where the sun rises."

"And the tree should be positioned as far toward the sun as it can get, so that it may grow faster," Maimie realized aloud. "How clever of you!"

Peter's innocence swirled at that, and he let it; he could use a bit of cheek just now. "Yeah, I'm good that way. Come on."

They began walking, Maimie pointing out where East was, and they went on through the dark like that for only a few seconds before Peter remembered something very important. Guiltily, he stopped, and glanced at her with a sheepish sort of expression.

"Sorry—I don't know your name."

Maimie beamed. "I'm Maimie Mannering." She offered her hand. "How do you do, Peter Pan?"


	13. Chapter 13: The Duke

**(Author's Note: I'm so sorry to have been gone this long, guys! If anyone's still reading, here's the next chapter. I'm struggling with major writer's block, so hopefully I'll get out of it soon enough to produce the NEXT one too.)**

* * *

Wendy was quickly beginning to realize exactly how miserable a twisted ankle could be. And how foolish it was to throw herself into a locked, public Park in the frozen night with such an injury. But perhaps the most miserable, foolish thing of all was the decision to bring Tony along.

Tony, as I hope I have mentioned before, was not an intentionally mean-spirited boy. (Except when he was.) There was something of Maimie's gentleness in him, but under the current conditions it could not be prodded out of its slumber. He was firstly humiliated, and now quite unbearably cold even with his good coat buttoned all the way up, and his cap was soaked through. He had also tripped over a tree root in the dark and had gotten his face stingingly damp in the snow in the process, which only irritated him further.

Not to mention the fact that Wendy had decided that she was not on speaking terms with him.

This girl was so infuriating. Even worse than Maimie, he now wagered. Wouldn't even look at him. If she had to speak, it was to ask him if he could see any sign of his sibling, or to tell him to call for her a little louder, and she said everything in a curt tone that was much colder than the Gardens around them. Could she not simply dismiss his previous performance of cowardice? Make good and all that? It wasn't hard, surely. Tony always found it very easy to forget the actions and words of others—namely because they were not as important to him as his own.

But no, she turned her back to him and limped along, perfectly content to commit all energy and attention to the discovery of his little sister.

Maddening.

"It'd be easier to see her," Tony grumbled, "if the snow would only let up for a moment!"

"Oh, please stop fussing," Wendy finally sighed. "It isn't going to help, you know."

Encouraged by her choice to address him at last, Tony went on in the same tone, "I dunno why she had to blunder out here, honestly. Doesn't prove anything. Just like a girl."

"You can stop that poppycock right now, Tony Mannering!" Wendy rounded on him, actually wagging her finger in a very motherly way. "She wouldn't be here, and neither would either of us, if you hadn't been so terribly—"

"Shh, shut up!" Tony suddenly hissed.

"I beg your _pardon_?"

"No really, do be quiet," Tony whimpered. "Look—over there, what's that?" He pointed, and Wendy turned at the seriousness in his voice to see what was the matter.

A little light, a short distance away, could be seen on the path. Well, that was hardly something to get upset about. Wait, stop! Wendy squinted. She'd seen this sort of light before, but…surely it wasn't. No. She was quite adamant, a few seconds later, even as she leaned forward, that it was only a trick of the snow. She was not really seeing the dim silhouette of a tiny humanoid figure in that ball of light. And besides, the light was mauve, not silver, and there was no music. It wasn't floating. It couldn't be what she suspected.

Tony was now clutching at her arm as they grew closer. Wendy had been moving in a very unconscious way toward the light, hobbling, and Tony's grip on her sleeve was not improving her balance.

"What is it?" whispered Tony in fright. "What is it?"

Wendy did not bother removing his hand from her arm; she was concentrating on being as silent as possible. Through the falling snowflakes, she could see that they were only a mere foot from it by this time.

Then she saw the wings, and as the creature turned just a little, so that she could see a truly human profile, the most childlike part of her took hold of her heart and played with it as one would a hoop or a ball. Her mouth turned up at the corners, watching the thing in absolute ecstasy. She did not know why it was here, or why it looked so strange, but its very presence brought back to her days that she had only longed for all this time. And for one glorious moment of rapture, it did not matter what it was doing there; it only mattered that—there it was. So there was hope.

And then instinct took over, Wendy's sheer cleverness returned to her, and she quickly barreled backward into the Mannering boy, until they were safely hidden behind a fallen tree.

"What are you—" began Tony in an outrage, and Wendy signed for him to be silent.

"It mustn't discover us," she explained, in the softest of tones.

"But what on earth _is_ it?" Tony glanced back at the light. "I mean, it looks—it looks—"

"'Tis a tree-spirit," Wendy informed him gravely. There was no use hiding her Neverland knowledge now; there was the evidence just in front of them. "They are born from trees and they thrive on mineral dust."

Tony gave her a blank look.

"Fairies," Wendy tried again, a little exasperated. "It's a fairy, with fairy dust. It lives in the trees."

"Rubbish," snorted Tony at once, but he was still pale.

"It shouldn't be here," said the girl, thinking aloud now. "They only ever live in Neverland."

"There isn't any such place!" Tony scoffed.

And then Wendy gave him such a _look_ ; he lost all feeling in his hands. Tony blinked and glanced back at the light, heart pounding. This was all too much. If fairies existed, surely phantoms did also. And that meant that he was in danger already. It was all very well to _talk_ about being brave, but to really be it is something else entirely, and it was a challenge he felt quite certain he would not be accepting.

"Something must be wrong," Wendy was mumbling to herself. Tony thought she sounded quite mad, but decided to keep this to himself. He also thought the snowflakes catching in her hair made her look rather fetching, but he decided to keep that to himself too.

Wendy leaned ever closer, on hands and knees, the snow crunching beneath her. "But…oh, but it can't be here, how can it survive? It must be frightfully weak. Something _is_ happening, and I should think it isn't at all good." She scrambled to her feet.

Tony grabbed at her coat, frantic. "Where are you going?"

"I must talk to it," Wendy hissed, batting him off. "I'll only be a moment."

Tony was not going to stay all by himself in the ice. Phantoms and that. Trembling, he stood with her, ignoring how cold the sudden movement made him. Batty, being out in this weather. He wished he were at home in bed, not following Wendy Darling through this ridiculous park in the dead of night. Then again, if he absolutely _had_ to be following someone in these conditions…

"You don't even know if it can speak English," Tony tried to dissuade her.

"Oh, they can't," Wendy informed him distractedly, limping forward.

"Great Scott." Tony swallowed a groan. "Then why are we—"

"If you haven't got anything polite to say, you had better leave the speaking to me, please," Wendy whispered, not turning around.

It is not easy to sneak up on a tree-spirit. Wendy knew this from previous interactions with one Tinkerbell, and she approached the little thing with the utmost caution and a frightening lack of speed. But this tree-spirit was either hurt, frozen, or else just stupid, because it did not sense them coming at all until they were inches from it.

It was male, that was clear as he turned round, springing into the air with a speedy flap of his wings.

"Halt!" cried the fairy man, and Wendy gasped.

"You…" Wendy's eyebrows came down over her eyes so low, Tony thought she might be angry about something, but really her brow was weighed in confusion. "You can speak."

"Far better than _you_ can, I fear I must point out," the tree-spirit smirked.

"D-Do forgive me," Wendy stammered. "I—in my past experience, sir, your kind have…they've spoken only in _thoughts_."

"Nonsense," the tree-spirit sniffed.

"But thoughts have no language." Wendy fought to keep the confusion from showing further still through her tone, but it was getting rather difficult. "Are you speaking the Queen's English, sir?"

"Not _your_ queen's," said the creature, folding his little arms over his chest. " _Ours_. But I daresay they're similar. What business do you have here? You and your…" He curled his lip at the cowering boy behind her. " _Pet_."

Tony stiffened in outrage.

The tree-spirit continued, oblivious, "Don't you know human children aren't allowed in the Gardens at night? You are in danger."

"Told you so," hissed Tony in Wendy's ear. She took a step forward to get out of his reach, irritated by this distraction.

"As I said, sir, I…I have experience with tree-spirits. With your people." Wendy shook her head a little so that her hair would part from her face. She looked straight on at the man, remembering that Tink had once told her haughtily that to break eye contact with a tree-spirit was like spitting in its face. "If we are in danger, we were unaware of it until now. You see we're looking for a friend of ours."

"My sister," Tony spoke up, and though his voice shook, he lifted his chin. "What've you done to her?"

But Wendy, to his annoyance, showed no interest in his sudden burst of boldness. Instead she turned and shushed him!

"Tony, please," Wendy whispered to the boy, "you're being rude!"

"Relations?" asked the tree-spirit airily. "Don't tell me there's _another_ mortal walking these grounds."

"There is," Wendy confirmed. "And we shall leave as soon as we've found her. Have you seen a girl, a human, walking about in the Gardens tonight?"

The tree-spirit fluttered a bit closer to her. "I have seen _you_. Are all humans this enchanting?"

Wendy would have blushed, had she not been so cold. Behind her, Tony rolled his eyes.

"I-I hardly know, sir," Wendy mumbled bashfully. "No, another girl. Please, if you have—"

"I have not," said the tiny man. He landed on the branch of a small tree, so that he was eye-level with them. "But I can see you mean no harm. Perhaps I can help you? No, don't respond, there's something else. Before we go further, children, introductions must be made." He lifted his little chin. "What title do you carry, fair one?"

"Oh yes, of course! I am Wendy Moira Angela Darling," rolled off the girl with some satisfaction. "And this is my—this is—er, Tony Mannering." Well, what would _you_ have called him?

Tony was still trying to think of a sentence that would not be considered _rude_ to the strange beast standing on the branch.

"And I," pronounced the tree-spirit with a grand bow, "am the Duke of my people, in service to the admirable Queen Mab, the First in rule."

Wendy, trying to contain her delight and failing, as she always did when encountering magic, looked round to share her fascination with the only other human on the scene. She glanced at Tony, beaming, thinking how wonderful it was that someone else from her world could see this enchanting race at last. She was also a little smug that she had known them before anyone else her age, and also very pleased that this was a _different_ sort of tree-spirit, one she did not know so well, and that only made it more interesting.

But Tony did not seem thrilled. The poor, foolish boy was trying to make sense of it all. Yes, he _had_ believed in phantoms before tonight, but that all seemed quite natural, quite possible. Especially at night, in this formidable wood, in the middle of a small snowstorm. It was just the sort of place one might find phantoms, like looking into a library and finding charming older persons, all smelling of soap and brandy. Fairies, however, were in Tony's mind an entirely separate thing, not at all fitting in this world, the stuff of children's books. And he was right—phantoms fit this world, they are the sort that belong in stories, but fairies (or more accurately, _tree-spirits_ ) are so superior to our kind and our realm that they do not fit one jot in a place like London, which is one of the reasons why these tree-spirits did not possess the same attributes as their Neverlandian counterparts.

Nevertheless, Tony did not like this brave new discovery. Not even a little.

It seemed that the brave new discovery did not like him, either. The Duke put a hand on the sword tied to his hip with a bit of grass; Wendy saw with curiosity that it was, in actuality, a mere holly leaf. "And what of your pet, Lady Wendy? Is he dumb?"

Wendy did begin to feel sorry for Tony, just a bit. He really was out of his element, and she knew just how awful that could be. She'd been in the same sort of state for the past month.

"He is not my pet, sir—he is—my accomplice."

Tony scowled, finally listening again. He did not yet know why he disliked Wendy's description of him, but I can tell you. He wanted not to be called her pet, or her accomplice, or even her traveling companion. He wanted very much for Wendy to call him her friend, though as we have said, he was unaware of this. He only understood that the term she currently used made him bristle.

"And he isn't dumb, Your Grace," Wendy said, remembering to curtsy as she used the proper form of address. "I daresay he has simply never seen your kind before. I mean," she explained quickly, "a creature of your nobility."

"Very well," said the Duke doubtfully, still giving Tony a rather pitying once-over. His hand left the hilt of his holly sword. "I suppose it's possible. After all, you might well be the very first humans to lay eyes on a tree-spirit. I gather it is your honor. Now! Lady Wendy and her accomplice, the Mannering. I know _your_ titles," he began, "and you know mine. But what of this other human, the one you seek? What do you call her?"

"Maimie," Tony suddenly broke in. "Does it help if you've got her name? Can you—sniff her out or…or sense her, or something, perhaps?"

The Duke drew himself up to his full height—all twelve inches—and glowered at Tony. "Sniff her out? Like so many of your great bumbling hounds, your sheepherders? I should say not."

Wendy glanced again back at Tony, but this time it was not a sympathetic glance. It was a glance that told him, if a bit apologetically, to shut up.

"Please, Your Grace, he means no harm," she stammered. "But—Maimie—"

"Yes, yes," said the Duke impatiently. "I believe there is a far faster way of finding your friend than aimless meandering. Am I right to think your kind are susceptible to winter's bite?"

"Yes," Tony said through chattering teeth, before Wendy could rattle out one of her prim and proper replies.

The Duke smiled. "Then it is all the more urgent we get you to the Palace."

"The Palace?" Wendy gasped, that same euphoria flickering inside her.

The Duke flew off the branch, diving and swooping in a way Tinkerbell would never have done, wings beating much harder than hers had. "If this Maimie is anywhere near our position, the scout patrol will have encountered her." He paused in flight, looking down at her. "Though if that's the case, I fear for her safety."

"Why?" cried Wendy. "Whatever will they do to her?"

The Duke shook his head. "Time enough for details on the way. If they _have_ met your friend, they will have reported it to the Queen in the Palace of my people. There we will find answers." He blinked rather slowly, as if choosing his next words carefully. "I hope she will be in a forgiving mood. Human children are not permitted in the Gardens after dark."

As they began to follow the Duke, Tony wrapped his arms around himself and grumbled, with dreadful sarcasm, "I can't think why. Flying beasties, rubbish weather—it isn't as if everything is screaming for us to go home."

Wendy either did not find this funny, or had not heard him. Her eyes were fixed on the fairy fluttering above them. If tree-spirits had somehow entered Kensington Gardens, right in the heart of London, then something was definitely amiss in the Neverland. This would never have been allowed. There was trouble beyond the second star to the right, and where there was trouble, there was almost certainly…

But she pinched the bridge of her nose, the way Mr. Darling sometimes did to clear his head. No. She must not get her hopes up. Best to just focus on finding Maimie.

And though her head agreed quite willingly to this plan, her heart stamped its foot, not at all fond of the idea.


End file.
